Rare Ould Times II: The Times They Are A'Changing
by Atiaran
Summary: Uncalled-for sequel to Rare Ould Times, following the fate of Celebrian and Arwen. If you don't read Rare Ould Times first, you won't understand this. LOTR/WoT crossover. WARNING: Considerable liberties taken with both canons.
1. Prologue

**Standard disclaimer: **Most of the characters, locations, etc. contained within are not mine but are the property of their respective authors, Robert Jordan and J. R. R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story. Sthenn, Amatya, Ciriel, Risha Dumai and Deanna Sing are the property of this author. Daughter of the Nine Moons Riyath is nominally mine, but in reality she is basically Tuon—I originally wanted to use Tuon in this story, and would have done so except that according to my timeline, there is no way Tuon could have been alive (this story is set about a thousand years after the events in the Wheel of Time series). The poem Elrond recalls at the end of the story was originally written by Diane Duane and included in her book The Romulan Way. Again, no copyright infringement is intended by its use in this story.

**Author's note:**I started this story immediately after I finished and posted _Rare Ould Times,_ essentially because I felt that the question of what happened to Elrond, Celebrian and Arwen had to be answered. If you haven't read _Rare Ould Times,_ then I strongly suggest you do or else this story will absolutely not make sense. This story took about a year to write, then was mostly done but languished inside my computer for want of two scenes that needed finishing. Recently I've been experiencing some serious writers' block, so I decided to haul it out, finish the two scenes and post it as a means of hopefully breaking through the block. I'm not happy with it; _Rare Ould Times_ was a strange story to begin with and this one is just as strange, and perhaps even less polished, but basically it was post this story now or never post it, so I decided to post it.

I repeat what I said in the intro to _Rare Ould Times._ This is a LOTR/WOT crossover that is mainly a flight of fancy. WARNING: CONSIDERABLE LIBERTIES ARE TAKEN WITH BOTH CANONS. If you are a devoted Tolkien fan, or a devoted Wheel of Time fan, then this is probably not the story for you. In my experience Tolkien fans tend to be more passionate about their fandom, but this warning is aimed at both fandoms, particularly because this story is not _Winter's Heart-_compliant (yes, it's been languishing for that long.) If you are not a canon hound and are capable of taking your fandoms with a grain of salt, then come on in.

* * *

"_And what of the King Stag when the young stag is grown?"_

--_The Mists of Avalon__, _Marion Zimmer Bradley

* * *

The sun had gone down and the night was falling fast as the ten double chevron formations of the First Raken Flight swept up the Bruinen River toward Rivendell Garrison; they were scouting ahead and providing an honor guard for the to'raken flight carrying the Daughter of the Nine Moons Riyath Rehhei Kore Paendrag—or rather, High Lady Riyath, for she was traveling under the veil. The to'raken flight was about a day or so behind them; the First Raken Flight was traveling high and fast, to prepare the way for their followers. First General of the Air Briande Duchen Paendrag—who over a thousand years ago and in another life had been first Celebrian, Lady of Imladris, then Celebrian, da'covale shea dancer, then morat'raken Briande, then der'morat, then Supreme Der'Morat'Raken and now, for the last hundred years First General—tightened her grip on the reins to Yaiak, her raken, and adjusted her helmet to try and keep the light drizzle from getting in her eyes. Yaiak was hers; he had been given to her as a gift from the Empress's personal breeding dens, after her last raken had died. It was one of the privileges of the rank of First General of the Air—a rank that had been created especially for her by Empress Yi-ming after her performance in the Second Jianmin Incident. She was the first—and only—First General of the Air there had ever been, although if the rumors she had heard were right, there was another promotion in the offing for her. It mattered little to Briande. Promotions had long since lost their luster for her; she had had so many of them during her career, and she was so high already, that another change of title was almost meaningless. Although if she did get a promotion, she mused, it might open up another slot for those behind her. Those behind her. Yaiak bobbed in a brief swirl of air currents as a raken detached itself from the double-chevron formation that followed in her wake and drew up alongside her; she did not have to look—although she did—to know whose it was.

Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ of the Ever Victorious Army of Seanchan Arisae Minabet Paendrag—who had enlisted, over a thousand years ago, as Apprentice _Morat'Raken_ Arwen of Imladris—and her backrider Sthenn Kimail, one of the very few male _morat'raken_, pulled alongside her, matching Yaiak's speed and altitude precisely. Arisae lifted her hands above her head—complicated speech would have been difficult to impossible at this distance, at least for mortals if not for Others—_Elves, as we are called here,_ Briande reminded herself; she kept forgetting—and flashed sign language at Briande—_Land here._

Briande shook her head and gestured back: _No. Five more miles minimum._

Arisae glanced back at Sthenn. They appeared to exchange words for a moment. She gestured again more forcefully. _Land here. Dark; rain. No further tonight._

Briande shook her head and gestured back in her turn, with emphasis. _No!_

Arisae rose in her stirrups then and shouted across the gap, secure in the knowledge that they were far enough ahead of the rest of the flight that their words could not be heard: "You may go on if you wish, but if _I_ give the order….." She said no more; she did not need to. She stared hard at Briande across the space between them, her gray eyes like stone. Behind her, Sthenn smiled.

Briande's fingers tightened on Yaiak's reins, till her nails dug into her palms. She hesitated for a long moment, then cursed under her breath. "Land the flight, Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ Arisae Minabet Paendrag," she replied, her voice cold; Arisae—_Arwen,_ for so Briande still sometimes thought of her, though she knew better than most how Arwen had ceased to exist the moment Arisae had gained her new name—smiled slightly, then sat back in her stirrups. A twitch of the reins, and she and Sthenn dropped back to the rest of the flight and flashed the hand signals.

As Yaiak led the spiral toward the wood and stone barracks and stables of Rivendell Garrison, looming as dark shapes in the slanting last of the evening's light, Briande was cursing under her breath the entire way down.

* * *

Elrond of Imladris—Elrond of the Others, as he was known by most of the Seanchan who lived, worked and carried out their business on what was still, after all these centuries, nominally his land—watched from the shelter of his front terrace, standing with his arms folded as the flight of _raken_ spiraled down to the place where the Seanchan camp—thrown up with such haste by High Lady Suroth's forces in the first days over a thousand years ago—had ossified into wood and stone barracks.

Gandalf was gone. After the fall of Mordor a thousand years ago at the hands of the Ever Victorious Army, the Istari had headed as far east as he could go in an attempt to get away from them; under Seanchan law, as a man who could perform magic—or _channeling,_ as the Seanchan called it—he would be subject to execution if he was ever discovered. Elrond had heard nothing of him since he had left, but hoped occasionally, with what shreds of hope were left him, that the Istari had been able to evade capture.

Gandalf was gone. Aragorn had passed his limit of years and fallen into dust over ten centuries ago. Boromir had returned across the sea with the Seanchan and had not been seen since, although Elrond had heard tales that he had risen to Banner-General in the Ever Victorious Army during the war the Seanchan called "Great Tarmon Gai'don," had been raised to the Blood of Paendrag, and at the end of the Seanchan's war had been able to retire a very famous and wealthy man; though he too had died a millennium ago, Elrond could still hear the young pikemen in the barracks singing the praises of "Ol' Thunder" Boromir. No longer a land of death and destruction, Mordor had been turned into a thriving mining province which every year sent tons of iron ore and steel by boat and _to'raken_ across the sea to Seanchan. Gondor and Arnor, the lands Elrond had hoped would be reunited by Aragorn so long ago, were now another province, as was the Shire. The lands prospered and thrived; soon after the Seanchan had consolidated their grip on Middle-Earth, the inhabitants had learned that these strange, insect-helmeted people were willing to more or less let things run as they always had—as long as nobody resisted.

_That_ lesson had been taught to the Riders of Rohan, about a hundred years after the War of the Ring; or what the Seanchan called Little Tarmon Gai'don. Elrond had stood—on this same terrace—and watched, as the Ever Victorious Army had gone out, heading with _lopar_ and_ raken_ and pikemen and _damane, _toward the plains of Rohan; had watched, a short time later, as cages of newly made _da'covale_ from Rohan were brought through Rivendell on their way to the Seanchan docks, to go across the sea to Seanchan. He had not known what _da'covale_ were, before then. He had not understood, when Celebrian had told him….when Briande had told him. Seeing it, he felt he could understand a little better, the story of the woman who had been his wife. He might have tried to help the Rohirrim, to resist somehow, but the Seanchan Blooded Lord in charge of the campaign against Rohan had made it very clear that he was allowed to keep Imladris only on sufferance; Galadriel, he had heard, was allowed to maintain control of Lothlorien in the same fashion, once the Seanchan _sul'dam_ had tested her and found that she was not affected by their shining silver collars—their _a'dam_. Apparently that meant that she was not a _damane, _and therefore worth dealing with.

Still, he might have tried to help the Rohirrim, except…except…somehow, he seemed to no longer care what happened around him. The War of the Ring—Little Tarmon Gai'don—had cost him his wife, his daughter, and one of his sons; Elladan had crossed the Sea in a Seanchan ship at the end of the war, to be—so he had told his father—a _soe'feia_ Truthspeaker to one of the High Blood, and remained there. If he had not been killed fighting what the Seanchan called Great Tarmon Gai'don, on the other side of the world. The War of the Ring had cost Elrond almost all his family, but more than that, it had cost him the entire world he knew—the world he had spent three thousand years building. And there was a deeper cost, a cost that had fallen hard upon all the Others—_Elves,_ he had to forcibly remind himself. It had cost them the Land Beyond the Sea. The cost of that stifled, frustrated longing—for instead of to Valinor, the Undying Lands, as they had thought and dreamed, any journey beyond the sea would only bring them to the shores of Seanchan, to the docks of Shon Kifar—had driven many of his kind to despair, and even to death; Haldir had been one such who had died in that fashion.

The effort of finding the will to survive in such a changed, such a strange world had drained almost all of his energy and strength, and left him too exhausted to spare much of a thought for anyone else. So he had simply stood—as he stood now—and let the _da'covale_ cages pass on beyond the boundaries of Imladris. After all, what could he do? He had seen what happened to the proud who took on the Seanchan Crystal Throne.

Now he stood, head tilted back, and looked up at the shapes of the _rakens_—black against the color draining from the night sky—as they spiraled down to the landing field a distance away from his front terrace. Then stopped and narrowed his eyes, straining to see through the rain and the lowering dusk as the light declined, cursing inwardly as a flare of hope lit his chest.

They had come back. After a thousand years, they had finally come back.

Celebrian and Arwen.


	2. Return

The two of them came up the steps of the front terrace together, Celebrian first and Arwen behind her and slightly to the right. It was almost full dark by that time, and the two of them were at first no more than indistinct forms in the deep twilight. Though they moved with a strange grace that was not mortal yet at the same time no longer—quite—Elven, it was still familiar to him and for a moment—one brief, shining moment—they seemed exactly as they had been when he had last seen them: that day, that night, of the Seanchan strike against Isengard.

His heart lifted and he started to greet them, but then they emerged into the light of the circle of lamps that surrounded the terrace and his words died in his throat, for though their faces were familiar, they themselves were not, and he realized—again, again, he should have already known this after Celebrian returned to him as Briande—that they were no longer his wife, his daughter. They were Seanchan.

Celebrian—Briande—took off her insectile helmet first, laying it gently on the table in the middle of the terrace, and though he _knew_ she was no longer his wife, he could not help but fill his eyes with her. She looked thinner than she had when he had last seen her so very long ago, and wearier as well, as if she were laboring under some sort of strain; at once his eyes went behind her to check for the little human who had accompanied her everywhere last time, but then he caught himself. Doubtless by now the little human was long since cold in her grave. His gaze returned to his—wife's—face, and he saw that somewhere between their last meeting and now she had picked up a scar that ran across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, right under her eyes; looking at that gave him an inward chill. Just a touch higher and it would have cost her her sight.

He must have spoken it without realizing it, because she frowned at him and raised an eyebrow; he repeated it aloud, speaking in Sindar, the language of his heart. "An inch higher and you would have been blinded," he murmured, reaching out without thinking to trace the thin white line across her face; she stepped back at once, and his hand hung there a moment before he let it fall to his side.

"What? That?" she asked, and her speech was in the slurring manner that he could now recognize as Seandar court accent; he had found it nearly incomprehensible the last time they had met. Much had changed since then. "Oh. A revolt in Marelendar. Our position was being overrun. I was…late lifting off. Not very bright." She sighed and ran a hand through her bright blonde hair, close-cropped as it had been last time to fit under her helmet. He frowned slightly, watching her.

"You look tired," he said, again speaking in Sindar; she closed her eyes, shook her head slightly and raised a hand.

"Seanchan. In Seanchan, Elrond of the Others," she said in the same slurring fashion, but she did reply, although it was again in the Seanchan speech. "Only a little. We've been flying all day."

"Still would have been, First General, if you had had _your_ way," a voice said behind her, its tone on the thin edge between humor and mockery, and as the speaker took her helmet off and swung it idly in her hand, Elrond turned to his daughter, Arwen Undomiel.

Only she was no longer the Evenstar, he saw as he looked at her, and somehow that distressed him, more than seeing Celebrian—Briande—again had. Perhaps because he already had met Briande. This newcomer he had never seen before.

She wore Arwen's face, but it was under hair cut short like Celebrian's; it was darkened by sun in a way that Arwen's milky complexion had never been. And instead of Arwen's expression of serenity and tranquility, this woman's face was alert and watchful, giving the impression that she was constantly taking in every bit of information about her surroundings—taking in, and evaluating, scanning for weaknesses and advantages. She met his gaze boldly, with that same expression that could be either humor or mockery. "Recognize me?" she asked with a sharp grin.

"Arwen," he managed at last, bringing together this Other—Elfmaiden—before him and his memory of his daughter with an effort.

Her smile stretched sharper, and she shook her head. "Not anymore, _Father,"_ she said mirthfully, then stepped back and bowed low. "Allow me to introduce Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ Arisae Minabet Paendrag, renamed and raised to the Blood by Empress of the Nine Moons Yi-ming for 'Outstanding Service to the Empire in Time of Crisis.'"

"The Second Jianmin Incident," clarified Celebrian—_Briande_—and he saw her turn a sour gaze on their daughter. Their daughter, Arwen—_Arisae_—bowed her head in a manner calculated to look humble but reeking of arrogance. "That will be enough, _Supreme_ Der'Morat'Raken _Arisae_."

"As you say, First General," Arisae responded in a saccharine voice. She moved aside then, and a third figure whom Elrond had not noticed before came up the last few steps and joined them on the terrace. Elrond glanced at him idly—and then stopped and looked again, staring hard.

The third figure on the terrace was Aragorn.

It was not, he realized after a moment; the man was too short, too lightly built—_and of course,_ he remembered distantly, _Aragorn has been dust for the past thousand years._ No, it was not Aragorn. But the face was so similar the two men might have been twins. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at a thousand-year-old ghost, until the man shattered the illusion; the short human male turned, spat, and asked roughly, "Somethin' the matter with your eyes?"

"Now, Sthenn, be nice," Arwen—_she is Arisae now_; Elrond had seen enough renamed men and women come and go in his lifetime to know how the renaming process worked, as he had not when he had first met Briande—said sweetly. "Father, this is my backrider, _morat'raken_ Sthenn Kimail."

Elrond stepped back, for he did not like something in the way Sthenn looked—at him, or at Arwen, he did not know. "What do you want?" he asked, his words coming out colder than he had intended.

"Rooms, Elrond." It was Briande—Celebrian—who had spoken and he looked back at her. "We want nothing more than a hot bath and some beds to sleep in that are perhaps better than _morat'raken_ barracks, and maybe some food other than trail rations or army chow." Her words were even more slurred than was customary for a Seanchan; Elrond realized that she must be very tired indeed. As she beheld his momentary hesitation—and misinterpreted it—she added, "If you wish to turn us away then do so, but under the Light, at least decide quickly; it's been a long day for all of us."

He paused for a moment more, trying to arrange his thoughts in order, then replied, "Celebrian…Arwen. You will…always have shelter under my roof." He meant those words to convey more than the mere sounds, but had the feeling his message was lost as he beheld the weary countenance of his wife, the slightly less weary face of his daughter.

Or maybe not; Celebrian nodded and said quietly, "Thank you, Elrond," as if she truly meant it, and Arisae behind her replied, her voice for a moment as honestly sweet as it had ever been, "Thank you, Father."

He stood aside then, and let them pass beneath the roof of Imladris.

* * *

"How does it feel, to be back after a thousand years, First General of the Air Briande?"

Briande pondered Arisae's comment, as the two women strode down the hall of Imladris, matched stride for stride. Arisae had spoken in a jeering voice; and Briande was certain that she meant it to be taken insultingly. But Briande refused to be insulted. After a moment, she turned and asked, "How does it feel to you, Arwen?"

Arisae scowled beside her at the use of her birth name—Briande felt it more than saw. But she did not retaliate. She only responded, "Strange. I never thought that I would ever see this place again—the back of beyond. The middle of nowhere. About as far from the bright center of Seandar as it is possible to be." She smiled sideways then and canted her eyes at Briande. "It must feel good to be home, First General." Behind her and respectfully to the side, Sthenn chuckled.

"And you, Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_," Briande replied. Arisae's scowl grew deeper.

"This place isn't my home anymore, Briande."

"Mine either; in fact, I think it is probably less my home than yours," Briande replied smoothly. Arisae drew in breath to speak, when a curtain was swept aside in an archway ahead of them and someone stepped through into the hall.

It was Elrohir, Briande saw almost at once; he glanced the other way, then turned to look in their direction and froze. His long dark hair, so like his father's, swung about his shoulders; his blue eyes, that he had gotten from her, widened. Arisae halted, and Briande did as well; they stopped so quickly that Sthenn bumped into them both and cursed quietly.

"Mother," Elrohir whispered softly, almost in awe. "Sister. You've—you've come back."

Briande stared at her son. He stared back. Nobody spoke for a long time; she ran her eyes over him. She had not seen Elrohir in over fifteen hundred years—she had managed to evade both her sons the last time she had been at Imladris—and the last sight she had of him was so colored with things that she would rather forget that she took no pleasure in it. She stared at him now to make up for before.

He was taller than she remembered, just by a finger-width, and fine-looking. Noble-looking; he was a son she could be proud of. A strange stinging started in her eyes, and she felt her lips curving up in a trembling smile. "Oh, my son," she murmured, barely audible, and then swallowed.

He took half a step toward her, smiling just as trembling back, and then looked to her left. "Arwen?" he asked, hopefully. But when Briande looked to her own left, she saw Arwen looking at him with no trace of recognition.

"Do I know you?" she asked, her voice all cool distance.

Elrohir's clear brow furrowed. "Arwen—Sister—don't you remember me? Don't you know your own brother?"

"Not Arwen," Arisae replied as coolly. "My name is Arisae Minabet Paendrag. Once, I might have been known as Arwen. But that was a long time ago." She frowned. "Elrohir of the Others," she said at last.

"Sister—" he began, and stepped forward, as if to embrace her, but Arwen's chill eyes looked at him. He stepped back, hurt plainly visible on his face.

"Arisae Minabet Paendrag has no brothers," she said, and pushed past him as if he did not exist. Elrohir stared at her, then turned to face his mother, begging.

"Mother—don't you know me? I—I am your son, you—Father said you and—and Arwen went with the Seanchan, but—"

Briande yearned to acknowledge him—her arms ached with the desire to embrace her son, gone from her side for fifteen hundred years. Her eyes stung, and she took a step toward him without thinking—then became aware of Arisae's cold gray eyes fixed on her, of Sthenn's smirking stare. She dared not show such weakness before them. She drew herself up, and looked at Elrohir through half-lidded eyes.

"You speak to First General of the Air Briande Duchen Paendrag, and Briande has no sons," she said coolly.

"But Mother, I—it's me, Elrohir! Don't you know me? I—_we_—saved you from the orc-dens! We—"

Briande froze. She went absolutely still, every muscle in her body tensing. To be reminded of such an episode—_here_, in front of her subordinates, who were just waiting to see her fall—Elrohir had seen her shift in expression and instantly fell silent, looking at her with wide eyes, as if he realized he had gone too far. She turned to look at her son, her teeth grinding, and out of fear, anger and shame mixed, she forced out, "You are not Briande's son."

She regretted the words instantly as she saw tears standing in her son's eyes, but she dared not take them back, not with Arisae and Sthenn watching gleefully. With her back as straight as an iron rod, she moved past him and, feeling the weight of her subordinates' stares, continued down the hall. Elrohir called after her desperately, but she paid him no heed, listening instead to the measured tread of Arisae's and Sthenn's steps behind her.

* * *

A few hours later, after she had had a chance to bathe and eat, Celebrian came upon Elrond in the gardens that Arwen had created thirteen hundred years ago; they met on the same terrace they had last time, where she had finally told him once and for all that she would not return to him. He had had the servants lay out for her the robes she had worn while she had been mistress here, in response to some fleeting, half-recognized hope; a hope that, he saw at once, was in vain. She had eschewed them and wore still her travel-stained leathers with her sword at her back and her dagger at her hip, though she had laid off her insectile helmet.

She looked slightly better than she had when she had come up the front steps; a bath and a hot meal had done her some good. But the shadows under her eyes remained, and as he looked more closely, he could see that her already sharp Other—_Elven_—features were sharper than they had been a thousand years ago. Sharper than they should be. She had always had the slender Elvish build, but she had lost weight since he had seen her last.

She smiled at him and joined him at his invitation, taking a seat on the bench opposite him. For a moment there was silence between them, as the two of them looked over the garden in the fully risen moonlight.

"It hasn't changed," she said at last.

"Hasn't changed?"

"These gardens. From the last time I was here. Who tends them now that Arisae—Arwen—is gone?"

"The servants," he responded. "Gardening was never a skill of mine," he added with a trace of humor, hoping for a smile.

He got one. Slightly. She said, with an air of irrelevance, "The Ogier among the Empress's Deathwatch Guards are known as Gardeners. I don't think they work with plants, though. More like….swords, and other weapons…." She fell silent again, seemingly lost in thought.

"Have you any idea…" he asked, somewhat hesitantly because he was not sure he wanted to know "….what….how….Elladan is doing?"

"Elladan?" she asked, looking back at him in surprise.

"He left—at the end of Little Tarmon Gai'don. He went over the sea, do you remember—to be a _soe'feia _Truthspeaker? I have heard nothing of him since then—I feared that he might have been killed during your Great Tarmon Gai'don, and I hoped that you might—"

She held up a hand for silence, frowning in thought; then her face cleared. "Oh. No, he was not killed. He was Truthspeaker to the Empress's family until the dynasty changed, and then he crossed the sea to the Westlands. He was there for a few decades or so, and then headed for Shara by the Great Silk Road, across the Spine of the World and the Aiel Waste. Not even the Aiel know much about Shara, but I think he made it just the same; from what I hear, he is a wealthy silk merchant now. Or so it is said; I have not communicated directly with him in centuries." She sighed again, and suddenly looked more tired than she had before.

Elrond nodded, relieved, and then looked at her closely and with more concern. "And you?" he asked gently. "How do you fare, Celebrian?"

"Why do you ask that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You do not look well," he told her quietly. "You appear to be…almost exhausted, and you have lost weight, I can see it in your face. _Are_ you well?"

Celebrian gave a thin smile and leaned her head against her hands. "Why do you not ask about Arisae, how _she_ fares?" She must have sensed his puzzlement, for she said now, "You know, you were right about her."

"I was?"

"Yes. I should never have taken her from Imladris. I did not stop to think, at the time, that I might not be doing her any favors, but—what?" She broke off, for he was laughing mirthlessly.

"I had come to the opposite conclusion," he told her after he had calmed. "No, you were right. Everything you said to me that night was correct. I was trying to keep her for selfish reasons, when I had no right to do so. I could not see that at the time, but afterwards—" He stopped as she shook her head without looking up.

"Perhaps you had the wrong reasons, but you were, in the main, right." She paused, and passed one hand over her eyes. "I'm so tired, Elrond," she said quietly. "I'm so tired, all the time. I wasn't before, but the last two centuries or so— I wish I could just….lie down one day and sleep for a thousand years."

"Celebrian—" he began uneasily; he looked at her closely and did not like what he saw.

"I keep dreaming of Ciriel, did you know?" she said abruptly.

Elrond was silent; he did not know what to say. He knew that she was speaking of the Elfmaiden who had shared her servitude after she had been taken _da'covale_ by the Seanchan—the Elfmaiden whom she credited with saving her life, even though Ciriel herself had not survived. He held his peace, wrestling with his thoughts. Celebrian did not appear to notice his silence.

"Every night, I dream of her," she continued after a moment. "I see her in my dreams….we talk, and she keeps telling me that she misses me….I wonder what it means." She trailed off.

Elrond's concern was rapidly deepening into worry as he looked at her; to change the subject, he reminded her quietly, "You said you should never have taken her with you? Why?"

Celebrian sighed and straightened with a slight effort. "Yes. The central problem between us," she continued, a sharp smile tugging at her features, "has to do with….immortality."

"How so?"

"It is because of the way of the mortal world," she explained. "In the mortal world, one generation ages and dies, thus making way for the generation that comes after it. That is how succession works: the old move aside or step down as they grow old and infirm, and the young rise to take their place; in turn they grow old, and in turn make way for the new."

"I know," he murmured; he had seen it in the old kingdoms, in the days before the Seanchan.

"Then you see the problem." She smiled that sharp, mirthless smile, and spread her hands.

"And that is?"

"I do not age," she said quietly. "I do not grow old or infirm. And I will not die."

"I see," he said after a moment's thought.

"Yes. We are both _raken_-riders. We both love the skies with a passion, and we both are desirous to better ourselves. We have all the time in the world; we can go as far as we are able. Yet there is only so far that we can go within the ranks of the _der'morat'raken_, and however far she goes, I am always in the next step up; she cannot advance until I do. Do you know why it took Arisae so long to become Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ for the entire Ever Victorious Army? For it did, it took her almost a thousand years. It took her so long because _I_ was the Supreme _Der'Morat_. No matter how well she performed—no matter how hard she worked—she could not be promoted until I was. And I would not have been had Empress Yi-ming not seen fit to create a new rank for me after the Second Jianmin Incident." She laughed without humor. "First General of the Air. The sole commandress of the _raken,_ the _to'raken_, and the Fists of Heaven. And I hear there's a new promotion in the works for me; to Banner-General—I would be the first _der'morat'raken_ to be made so, and have ground troops under her command. Ground troops! As if I even _want_ them. What would I do with ground troops? But it does not matter, because Arisae will see, again, that she is moving up only because I am. She…finds it frustrating, I fear," she finished, and leaned her head against her clasped hands again. "She does not like always having to be second." She drew another sigh.

Elrond was silent for a long moment, pondering what she had told him. "It is the Sickness of Men," he said at last with a shrug.

"The Sickness of Men?" Celebrian asked, looking over at him.

"This…desire for advancement," he said with a mirthless smile of his own. "It is a—a distortion in thinking, a hunger, a _sickness,_ that Men are peculiarly vulnerable to, and once it infects them it consumes them." Seeing her disbelieving look, he continued, "I have seen this before, and I know that you have too—I saw it in Isildur, and in Boromir—and from all that I know of them, it seems to me that the Seanchan are rotten with it," he added, casting her an oblique glance.

"You think so?" she asked.

"I do." He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice as he pressed his point. "It is a sickness that is foreign to _us_. When I served under Gil-galad," he continued, looking at her, "it would never have occurred to me to attempt to rise above him. Such a thought would have been unthinkable. I understood what my station was, and his, and accepted that he was above me without question. Think," he pressed her. "Would you _ever_—in your life—have challenged your mother Galadriel for rule of Lothlorien? Had you not been—would such a thought ever have occurred to Celebrian?"

"I did not have to challenge her," Briande replied with a strangely unreadable smile.

Elrond paused for a moment, uncertain what she meant, then dismissed it and continued, "So you see—this is not something that is common to our nature. But the Seanchan—they are rife with plotting, with scheming, with plans to gain advancement over each other—is there not a saying, that if there are not a dozen plots against the Empress going on at the Court of the Nine Moons, then she is so weak that she is not worth plotting against?" At her nod, he concluded with a shrug, "It is the Sickness of Men," and fell silent, looking out across the grounds of Imladris to the Seanchan encampment, lost in his own thoughts of years gone by.

"Maybe so," Celebrian responded in a neutral voice.

After a moment, he came back to himself and looked at her. "Why do you not retire?" he asked her. "To your lands of Duchen, on the edge of the Sen T'jore. You spoke of doing so at some point the last time we met—if you retired, then you could—"

"No," she said sharply and looked away. She continued, "I could not, not at this time. Not to Duchen. Not after the skies. You don't know the skies, how they— I would trade the skies, I could trade them—but not for a tiny patch of mud that has not even been developed yet. It would…it would almost literally kill me. In the future," she said unconvincingly. "In the future I will go to Duchen. But I cannot now."

Elrond gave her a long evaluative stare. She flushed slightly under his gaze, but said nothing more. After a moment, he said coolly, "I see." Celebrian shrugged, her color deepening further; she started to speak, but fell silent and avoided his eyes.

After a time, and a glance to be sure they were unobserved—they were, he knew this, but he was about to raise a subject that was extremely dangerous; the last time they had spoken of this a thousand years ago, he had not understood how severe the danger was, how great a risk she had taken by speaking of it—he sighed, then continued in a low voice, "You spoke…of plans, when we met before….you said," he went on as she looked at him sharply, "that it would not be the first time in the history of Seanchan that a former _da'covale_ had become—"

"_Be silent!"_ she hissed at him, her eyes wide with fright. "It was one thing," she added in a vicious whisper, "to speak of such things while the Empire was an ocean away, but now, while the Daughter of the Nine Moons herself is less than a day behind us—in the middle of Rivendell Garrison—" She stopped and raised a hand to her head.

"But—have you?" he pressed.

Celebrian closed her eyes. At first he thought she was not going to answer, that the subject was too dangerous; then at last she gave a long sigh. "Yes," she admitted in a whisper. "I…have begun, only begun and no more than that, to...set things in motion. But I must move _very slowly._ This dynasty is less than two hundred years old. It is still strong. And in spite of the fact that I have been raised to the Blood of Paendrag, I am still an outsider; I am not one of the key families that has a strong claim to the throne—though my long life has aided me in coming to be seen as truly Blood, for all that I was raised, not born." She sighed. "I am already moving faster than I had intended," she added with a tight smile. "I must; Arisae is right behind me, pushing, constantly pushing."

"Could you not let her know what you intend?" he asked quietly. "Perhaps then she would…gain patience."

"Are you mad?" she asked, raising an eyebrow with a grim laugh. "She would report me to the Seekers for Truth first, to get me out of her way, and then if at all possible she would find a way to reap the benefit of my planning for herself."

"Your own daughter?"

"My own daughter," Celebrian confirmed. "And yours," she added, looking at him. Elrond only shook his head and looked away.

"The Sickness of Men," he murmured again, with old bitterness. _It has taken my daughter….and you too, Celebrian. It took you from me centuries ago, but it is still hard….These Seanchan…._

"Perhaps I've simply lived too long," Celebrian said to him now, quietly. "I'm tired. I know I said it before…. I don't know if I have the strength to do all that I must anymore." She shrugged.

_I as well,_ he thought but did not say. _I had lived too long the moment the Seanchan set foot upon these shores._ He sighed. Then looked up, as a dark, distant shape came winging across the sky from the west.

"What is it?" he asked, as Celebrian rose to her feet.

"_Raken_-rider," she replied, squinting for distance. "Wearing the colors of the Second Flight, the one we left behind with the Daughter of the Nine Moons. The _raken_'s laden with two _morats,_ though, and does not appear to be traveling especially swiftly, so whatever it is, it can't be urgent." She raised an eyebrow. "If I had to guess, I'd say my promotion has come through."


	3. Confrontation

When they returned to the house, they were greeted by Arisae.

She also had taken the time to bathe and eat; she stood in the shadows of the terrace, with Sthenn close behind her, watching and saying nothing. She was leaning against a column, and her arms were folded as she watched them come up the walk.

Celebrian tensed as they drew nearer to Arisae, Elrond observed; her tension affected him as well, for he realized he had been unconsciously scanning Arisae as a threat. A _threat_. His own daughter. And he had not picked up a weapon in decades….but that was how Celebrian was regarding her, and he could not help but do the same.

Arisae bowed deeply, mockery in every line of her form. "I just heard the news. Congratulations, _Banner-General_ Briande Duchen Paendrag."

"You heard?"

"Oh yes." She gestured, and a young—very young—_morat'raken_ came forward, out of the deepest shadows at the back of the terrace. It was a human female, with her helmet off and held in her hands; her hair was short-cropped and firy red over blue eyes. Another _morat,_ probably her backrider, knelt behind her; it was so dark where she was that she was almost indistinguishable from the wall of the house behind her. The one in front looked painfully young and eager, and as Elrond glanced at Celebrian, he saw her air of weariness increase as she confronted the youth.

The _morat'raken_ dropped at once into a kneel, eyes to the ground; she was breathing hard as if she had run the entire way there from the barracks. Celebrian regarded her for a moment, then with the air of someone picking up a heavy burden, said quietly, "Rise and be _sei'taer,_ _morat._"

"Yes ma'am!" the _morat_ replied smartly and did just that, though she kept her eyes still respectfully low as she got to her feet.

"You are?" Celebrian asked, her voice calm and quiet; she seemed to be deliberately delaying.

"_Morat'raken_ of the Second Flight, First Talon Risha Dumai, ma'am!"

"And your backrider?" The form in the shadows gave an unintelligible squeak.

"_Morat'raken_ Deanna Sing, ma'am! She's nervous, ma'am!" Risha added, sounding nervous herself.

"I see." She sighed. "For what purpose have you sought me out here, _Morat_ Dumai?"

"I bring a message from the Empress, ma'am!" she announced eagerly. "It just reached Daughter of the—" She saw Celebrian's frown. "My apologies, I know she's under the veil. I mean, it just reached High Lady Riyath's entourage this evening, but it was thought to be important enough to send someone ahead with the information, ma'am!"

"And what is this message?" Celebrian asked quietly.

"Ma'am!" The little _morat_ pulled herself up even straighter if possible. "I am instructed to tell you that the Empress has given her assent. In addition to retaining command over the Forces of the Air, you, Briande Duchen Paendrag, have been officially promoted to the rank of Third Banner-General to the Crystal Throne of Seanchan, the first _der'morat_ ever to be made so in the history of the Empire!"

Celebrian did not move. She held herself still, carefully controlling her features so that no hint of emotion appeared on her face, but at the little _morat'_s words Elrond saw her eyes flicker to the side, to where Arwen—Arisae—watched from the shadows. Arisae looked back at his former wife, her own gray eyes glimmering, and exposed the edges of her teeth in something that could technically be called a smile. Behind her, Sthenn did not move, except to fold his arms.

The little _morat_ was still speaking; she was saying, "I was instructed to tell you that the official investiture ceremony will occur tomorrow or the next day, ma'am, when the Daughter—when High Lady Riyath's entourage reaches Rivendell Garrison—but it was thought that you should be told tonight, ma'am, so that—" Celebrian cut her off with an upraised hand.

"Thank you, _Morat_ Dumai," she replied. "You may return to the barracks now, and _Morat_ Sing with you; tell the garrison commander that I have received your message."

"Yes, ma'am!" Risha responded at once. Deanna Sing rose from her position in the shadows and came forward at Risha's gesture; she was slightly shorter than Risha, Elrond noticed peripherally, with hair as black as a crow's wing and anxious black eyes. The two of them bowed, deeply and painfully correctly, first to Celebrian, then to Arwen, who acknowledged them with a smile fractionally warmer than that she had bestowed on her own mother; Deanna squeaked again in nervousness and Risha scowled at her. The two of them hurried from the terrace; as soon as they were out of sight, he could hear Risha saying, "Honestly, Deanna, I can't take you anywhere!"

"Sorry, Risha!"

Then they were gone.

Among those who remained, the tension was thick enough to cut. It crackled almost visibly between Arisae and Celebrian across the empty flagstones of the terrace. Sthenn looked coldly at Celebrian over Arisae's shoulder.

"So now you're Banner-General." Arisae's voice was so quiet that even with Elven hearing it was difficult to make out her words.

Celebrian said nothing, nor did she move; she stared only at the Supreme _Der'Morat, _locking eyes like swords. Elrond moved without conscious forethought, to take up a place at Celebrian's side, against Arisae and Sthenn. Arisae—he found it impossible, suddenly, to think of her as _Arwen,_ with that look on her face—did not acknowledge his movement with so much as a glance. Celebrian did; he saw her eyes shift fractionally in his direction and her features softened briefly in an expression that might have been gratitude. It was only there for a moment; then it was gone, replaced behind a stony façade. But Arisae had seen that weakness, and she smiled again.

"And what about me?" the younger Elfmaiden asked now, her voice low and ominous.

"I will of course do all that I can to see that you are made First General of the Air—"

"Second, of course, to Third Banner-General Briande Duchen Paendrag." The words were clipped far too short.

"I did not ask for this, you know," Celebrian replied—no, _Briande_, he realized; the woman he had known as wife was slipping away under his eyes, to be replaced with the cold, correct Seanchan officer he had met for the first time a thousand years ago. Her voice was soft with careful threat.

Arisae gave a short, sharp sound that might have been considered a laugh. It crossed his mind distantly that he had never heard a sound so ugly come from Arwen's throat. "Did you not?" Behind her, Sthenn smiled.

Now Elrond spoke, unable to bear such hostility between his wife and she who was still his daughter. "Arwen—"

She spoke past him as if he were not even there. "I'm growing tired of always being second to you, Briande," she said now. "I've been second for over a _thousand years,_ and I'm growing tired of it. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, you're always in my way." The almost undetectable trace of petulance in her voice on the last few words was welcome to Elrond's ears if for no other reason than it disrupted the air of menace that hung between the two women.

"Arwen, _please._" He spoke again, more sternly. "There is no need for this—"

"There is." She cut him off again without taking her eyes from Celebrian.

Now Celebrian spoke, her voice as soft as if she were dealing with a wild and dangerous beast. "Arisae….you will not always be second to me. You have my word."

Arisae's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Do you plan to retire?"

"Eventually." But Celebrian looked down as she said it, and Arisae saw.

"I don't believe you." The words were almost whispered, and Elrond could have sworn he heard hurt in them as well as anger. "No," she continued more strongly, "how can I? _I_ would not retire, were I in your place—how could I? Retire, and give up the skies? My lands of Minabet are nowhere near attractive enough to compensate me for such a loss--"

"Nevertheless, Arisae," Celebrian repeated intensely, "I—I promise you that you will not always be second." She stepped closer to her daughter, as if by movement she could convey sincerity. "I swear—one day, I will leave the ranks of the _raken_-riders, and you will be free to rise. You have my word, Arisae," she added in a whisper.

Arisae shook her head now, and closed her eyes. Her hurt was rising to the surface, but when she spoke, her voice was hard. "You've been saying the same thing for the past thousand years. _When,_ Briande? _When? When will you get out of my way?"_

"Eventually, Arisae," Celebrian could only repeat. "Eventually I will. One day I will—will leave, and you will be free."

Arisae looked at her mother. Elrond might have been wrong, but he thought her eyes looked overbright. "You will leave," she said scornfully, mockingly. "'Someday you will leave.' I don't believe it. I have seen Duchen. Its lands would be even less compensation for the skies than Minabet." She closed her eyes. Drew a deep, steadying breath, and then looked back at her mother coolly. Distantly. "There is only one thing I can think of," she said, each word as deliberate, as dangerous as the keen edge of a knife, "that could be compensation for such a loss."

Elrond froze. He felt a chill run down his spine. Quickly, he looked at Celebrian and found she had stilled into immobility as well. She stared at her daughter. Her daughter stared back, determined.

It was his voice that broke the silence, though he barely recognized it and certainly had not intended to speak. "Arwen…._what do you mean?_"

Arisae swallowed. She cut a glance briefly back over her shoulder at Sthenn, who said nothing but smiled a dagger's smile. Then she drew herself up. Her spine straightened, her eyes chilled, her head came up.

"_The Crystal Throne of Seanchan."_

* * *

Briande felt the blood chill within her. Behind her she heard Elrond's sudden intake of breath, but could not spare a thought to look at him. Her eyes were locked on Arisae's, and had to remain there; to look away was to show fear, and though it had bloomed within her, she dared not. Not in front of her _subordinate--_not daughter. She could not believe that her daughter would ever—could ever—threaten her in the way that Arisae was trying to threaten her now.

"You know nothing, _little_ _girl,_" she heard herself say through lips that felt as if they had been iced; the contempt she heard in her voice was thick enough to curdle milk. Thick enough to hide her fear. "Not _one thing._"

Arisae's own lips curled up in a smile the likes of which Briande had never seen save on the faces of those trying to kill her. Her voice was the slightest bit unsteady when she spoke. "Do I not? I know that you have been planning since the Second Jianmin Incident—"

"You know _nothing!_" Briande snarled as if at the cut of a lash.

"I know that you are involved in the rise of the Fai Angan movement in the Western Provinces—that you have been helping their leaders to find money and weapons—"

"_Lies,_" she hissed, snakelike.

Elrond spoke—almost shouted—at exactly the same moment. "Arwen, that is _enough!_" Arisae did not so much as glance at him.

"—and that your ultimate goal is eventually the _downfall of the—aaaiihh!!_"

Briande moved with a speed born of fright, covering the distance between them in one leap, her sword in her hand; she was clutching it so tightly that her fist ached, although she did not remember drawing it. She saw, as if in a dream, Arisae raising her hand, a look of fear crossing her face; then Briande had thrown her back against the wall behind her and laid the keen edge of the blade to her subordinate's neck. Behind her, in another world, she heard her former husband shouting, ordering them both to stop at once, that he would not have such things happen within his house, but she paid him no heed. Sthenn moved off to her left; she could hear him start forward, then stop—probably in the knowledge that there was no way he could get there before she did. Briande paid him no heed either. She glared into Arisae's eyes from a distance of less than six inches, seeing the fear there, very real.

By the time she finally spoke, both Elrond and Sthenn had lapsed into silence.

"You breathe one word of these lies to _anyone_," she hissed, "and I will see you _beg_ for the Death of Ten Thousand Tears."

There was no sound on the terrace except for their labored breathing.

Briande shook Arisae slightly. "Do you_ understand?_"

Arisae swallowed. "Y-yes," she whispered.

"_Do you?!"_

"Yes, F-First General," she replied more loudly.

"_Good,_" she snarled.

She released Arisae and stepped back. Arisae raised a trembling hand to her throat, where a trickle of bloodran; Briande had apparently nicked her without noticing it. Briande was trembling herself though she dared not show it; she felt awful inside, both shaky and very, very tired. Her sword was suddenly so heavy she could barely hold it.

Elrond was staring at both of them with wide eyes, and Sthenn, but it was Arisae that had her attention. Because she could see, in Arisae's eyes, that this wasn't over. _Not only that,_ she thought, with a weariness that left no room for any other emotion, _but I think I just made things worse._ She did not have the energy to think of _how,_ in that moment; there was only the realization that she had.

Slowly, unsteadily, she sheathed her sword at her back and turned away, toward the terrace archway. Elrond caught her eye as she did so; she shook her head slightly as she passed him. "Too long," she murmured under her breath. "I've simply lived too long."

* * *

After Celebrian left, the terrace was still, save for Arwen's—Arisae's—harsh breathing. She had sunk to her knees, holding one hand to her throat where a trickle of blood flowed; she was trembling, Elrond could see it from where he stood. He was trembling himself. Not even during the first War of the Ring had he seen anything that had shocked him as deeply as when—Briande—had laid her sword to the edge of Arisae's throat. He hoped never to see anything like that again. And the worst of it was, he could not blame Briande. Not at all. He had seen how drastically she had paled when Arwen had revealed her own weapon. He had seen the fright in her eyes. And he knew—he knew just how justified it was. The idea that Arwen could even _think_ of threatening her mother in that fashion chilled his blood.

The punishment for treason to the Crystal Throne was not called the Death of Ten Thousand Tears for nothing. Or so he had heard.

Sthenn Kimail moved, going to where Arwen knelt on the ground; Elrond's command halted him in his tracks. "Stop," the Elflord ordered harshly.

Sthenn and Arwen froze and turned to look at him, Sthenn as Aragorn might have looked, had Aragorn ever borne the expression of a sullen, disobedient child. Arwen—was Arwen at that moment, he saw, her gray eyes as wide and vulnerable as if—as if she were again his beautiful, precious, most-loved daughter. Distantly, it occurred to him that he would rather have lost her to Aragorn than see her like this now.

He looked at Sthenn now. "Leave us," he commanded.

Sthenn glanced at Arwen and started to say something, but Elrond cut him off. "No. Leave now." The human hesitated a moment longer. Elrond stared at him, until, abashed, Sthenn dropped his eyes. He turned, and went off through the terrace arch, leaving father and daughter alone together.

His daughter. She sat, hand to her throat, looking at the floor in front of her; she had looked so as a child, when he or Celebrian had caught her in some wrongdoing. Such times had been few. She had always been so well-behaved as a girl, he remembered, exceptional even among Elven children for her quietness, her docility, her gentle humor. In the evening starlight and the shadows of the terrace, he thought he saw a reflective trail of tears trace its way down the side of her face; he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, as he had when she was a child, to tell her not to worry, that he would take care of everything.

Except she was no longer a child, and he could not protect her from this.

_The Sickness of Men,_ he thought to himself. _It is the Sickness of Men._

When he spoke, it was in Sindar, though he scarcely realized it; his voice was low, quiet. "Is this how things are done among the Seanchan? In the Court of the Nine Moons?" She did not answer; she took her hand away from her throat and looked at the red stain on her fingertips. "Is it customary there for children to threaten their mothers?"

"You do not understand." She did not look at him.

"Ah. You are correct. I do not understand. Perhaps I am not Seanchan enough to understand what justification there might be for a daughter to threaten her mother with—" But he faltered; he did not even wish to name that fate. "Perhaps you might enlighten me, _Supreme_ Der'Morat'Raken _Arisae Minabet Paendrag._" There was no anger in his voice, only a sort of leaden distance.

"Father, it's not like that," Arwen said; she closed her eyes for a moment, then looked back at him. "I—she—She is planning to betray the Empire. It is my—my duty to inform the Empress—"

Elrond did not even bother to dignify that with a response; he simply stared at her levelly until she looked away.

"Please, Father…don't make this harder than it is," she said, pushing herself to her feet.

"Make _what_ harder than it is?" he asked quietly. "Make it harder for you to threaten your mother? I say, _threaten_, because I refuse to entertain for one moment the possibility that my daughter would ever actually _attempt_ such a thing." She did not answer. Elrond's heart chilled within him. "_Would you?_" he demanded.

"You don't understand how it is among the Seanchan."

"I understand you," he said. "I understand my daughter—"

"No you don't." She looked back at him with the faintest hint of a smile—a contemptuous smile—lurking around her lips. "You understand Arwen, perhaps, but you do not understand Arisae."

"They are both my daughter. And I _cannot believe,_" he said sternly, "that _my daughter,_ be she Arwen or Arisae, would—would threaten her mother with death by _torture_ for the chance to _rise in rank._"

Arwen or Arisae sighed and threw her hands up in frustration. "Father, I—You have never left Middle-Earth. You have barely left _Rivendell Garrison—_"

"Imladris."

"Rivendell Garrison," she repeated. "You have never been to Seandar, never seen the Empress, or the Court of the Nine Moons, you have—you don't understand. There's no way that you can. But I—I have been in the presence of Empress Yi-ming. I have felt the awe and power of the Crystal Throne—" her voice grew soft and her eyes misty as she spoke, he observed in amazement; he had seen such an expression before, on the face of Celebrian when she had spoken of the Crystal Throne "—I have been permitted to _gaze on the Empress!_ I have crossed the Aryth Ocean to Paendrag's Home—I have seen Tar Valon, Caemlyn, Cairhien—the Island of Tremalking with the great _saidar_ Choedan Kal—"

"All _mortal_. All _transitory,_" he interrupted her, his voice growing harsh for the first time. "And—"

She raised an eyebrow. "The Choedan Kal predate the Breaking of the World," she said only, ironically. Elrond blinked—he had no idea what the Choedan Kal were, nor the Breaking of the World—then dismissed it.

"You would betray your mother to a fate worse than _death_ for—for a transitory honor gained at the hands of these dying mortals—"

"_Yes!"_ she exclaimed fiercely, dropping back into the slurring Seanchan speech in her anger; she looked at him, her gray eyes—so like his own—burning.

He stared at her for a long moment. "_Why?"_

She closed her eyes for a moment. "I am a _der'morat'raken,_ Father," she said quietly. "I want to go far. As far as I can. That's all, I swear. No more. But—while Briande is there—" She glanced at him and he was amazed to see tears in her eyes. "While she is there, I can't," she said in a whisper and looked down. "And I have worked hard—so hard—and waited so, so very long—and she is always—always—" She broke off and raised one hand to cover her eyes.

He was silent, thinking, then said in a softer voice, "Arwen, Arwen….could you not at least….find….something….else to do?" The concept was somewhat foreign to him; even in these degraded times, it was hard for him to conceive of an Elf actually _doing_ anything. "Perhaps you—you could go to—Lothlorien," he suggested tentatively. "Galadriel still rules there—here, at Imladris, I—"

"_No!"_ The word was almost a shout. "And give up the _skies?_" she demanded, turning on him fiercely. "And give up the _world?_ To be—to be trapped in one place, like a—a—a rustic, backwoods, ignorant _dirtcrawler_ who knows nothing more of the world than what they can see between their front door and the horizon?" He flinched, both at the anger she turned on him and at the words. She softened. Slightly. "Father," she said quietly, "don't you understand why I left in the first place?" She drew a breath and composed herself. "For me, as for Briande, there is only one path out of the ranks of the _der'morats._ One path."

He stared at her for a long moment. Her words still rang in the air between them.

_To be trapped in one place….like a rustic, backwoods, ignorant dirtcrawler…._

"Perhaps you are right," he said quietly, and now it was he who dropped his eyes before her. "Perhaps I do not know my daughter after all."

And he turned and left, leaving Arwen—Arisae—in possession of the terrace.


	4. Plotting

He had not gone far before he met with Elrohir; and he had only to look at Elrohir to know that his son—his last, remaining son—knew what had transpired.

"Father, is it true?" Elrohir demanded, falling into step beside him, his eyes wide. "Is—did—did Arwen really _threaten_ Mother with—" But he could not finish the sentence.

Elrond closed his eyes. He was sick at heart; though Elrohir might have been a comfort, the questions he was asking were not, and Elrond did not wish to deal with them, to attempt to find answers for what could not be answered. He said only, shortly, "Yes," and said no more, hoping that his son would take the hint.

He did not. "_Yes?_" he asked, staring at his father in open disbelief. "How—how could it be _yes?_"

"Elrohir—"

"She didn't," he continued doubtfully. "I—I don't believe it. She couldn't possibly—Not even now. She couldn't have changed that much, could she?" He appealed to his father. "Could she?"

"It is these Seanchan," Elrond said, shaking his head.

"These Seanchan…." Elrohir tasted the words for a moment; Elrond could see him contemplating the idea. After a moment, his youthful face hardened into lines of bitterness beyond his years—at least, beyond the years of an Other.

_An Elf,_ Elrond reminded himself distantly.

"They changed Arwen—that much—" Elrohir said, and his hands clenched.

"I am afraid so."

For a moment there was silence between father and son, as they walked without purpose, without direction, down the corridors of Imladris.

"She's lost to us," Elrohir said, and closed his eyes. "She—She didn't even know me when they came in. Neither of them did. Or they would not admit it."

"You know how the renaming process works," Elrond said gently in an attempt at reassurance. "Neither of them are—who they were when they left here."

"And Elladan?" he demanded, looking at his father. "What of him?"

Elrond said nothing, only shook his head.

Again, there was silence for a time; then Elrohir turned again to his father.

"Aren't you going to do something about it?" he demanded now. Elrond responded with a questioning look, to which Elrohir clarified, "You can't let—You _can't_ let Mother be killed. Aren't you going to do something?"

"There is little I can do," Elrond said heavily. "This is a Seanchan affair and I—I have little control over such things." The admission came hard, though it was a true one. At Elrohir's look, he continued, each word perfectly correct, "First General of the Air Briande Duchen Paendrag is hardly without defenses against such an attack, my son. Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ Arisae Moribet Paendrag may find any such assault more difficult than she considered."

Elrohir swung on him with the fire of youth. "So you are going to sit back and let—let Arwen _kill_ Mother without any sort of attempt to stop it—"

"There is nothing I _can_ do!" The words were close to a shout; closer than he had intended. Elrond paused and clasped his hands behind him; they were trembling slightly. "Do you not think," he continued, when he had regained control of himself to some extent, "that if I could stop this I would? Do you think I would let my daughter—my wife—" He paused again here and drew a deep breath. "I _can_ do _nothing._ It is a Seanchan affair," he said again. "What do I—How can I—" It came to him what he was doing—that he was defending himself to his _son_—and he stopped by effort of will, raising one hand to cover his eyes. Elrohir said nothing, but his silence was that of disgust.

"You can do nothing," he said after a time. "It is fitting. You could do nothing to stop them from leaving; why should I think that this should be any different?"

"Elrohir—"

"Never mind, Father, I should have known better." His face tight with anger,

Elrohir pushed his way past Elrond and left his father behind.

* * *

Briande had gone to the gardens after the scene on the terrace, taking in the night air, trying to allow the tension and shaking to leach from her system. She followed the white stone path, not thinking of anything, simply allowing her feet to carry her, until the path rounded a hedge and ended up in a small clearing under a white marble fountain.

She recognized the clearing and the fountain at once; it was the same clearing and fountain by which she had met Arwen the day she had taken her for a _morat'raken._ It was the image of Luthien Tinuviel, Arwen's—and her former husband's—ancestress, who had chosen mortality for love. Elrond had had it carved in the image of Arwen, she remembered distantly, to please her; when Arwen had been Undomiel, many had said she was as beautiful as Luthien had been.

Briande had never understood why an immortal being would choose mortality. Now, however, she thought she was learning. _Were you as tired as I am, Luthien? _she wondered, taking a seat on the edge of the fountain. _Were you, as I am, trapped by the path your life has taken?_ She had once heard a human state in her hearing that the human's age—fifty-some-odd years old—was too old to be thinking of such notions as starting over; at fifty, the human had maintained, it was necessary to keep moving just to avoid the weight of one's own past. Briande had said nothing but had only smiled, thinking that humans had a particularly mortal conception of time if that was what they believed. And yet….and yet here she was now, surrounded by the evidences of a life she had once thought left behind forever; her own daughter now a threat, due to actions she had taken over a thousand years ago….She sighed and lowered her head into her hands.

Light footsteps made her look up sharply; she rose to her feet and put her hand to her sword hilt, facing down the path where it bent around the hedge. She did not think, even now, that Arisae could be a physical threat, but after the scene on the terrace she did not know for certain….and Arisae's backrider Sthenn was frightening. More than backrider, if the rumors that Briande had heard was true, though she did not know how and why Arisae would ever choose such a one to keep her company.

When she saw it was only her former husband, she sat down againand greeted him with a smile. "Join me," she invited, gesturing toward the rim of the fountain.

He offered her a brief smile in return, and sat as she did, turning slightly to stare into the waters of the pool below Luthien's—Arwen's—marble, dancing feet. He seemed subdued, thoughtful; he did not speak at first, but was content to sit and look at the waters.

After a long moment, Briande addressed him. "Elrond—"

"I was accounted wise, once," he said quietly, as if he had not heard her.

Briande paused, then nodded in response to his statement. "You were."

"I was Elrond _Peredhil,_" he continued. "Elrond Half-Elven. You know this story too, don't you?" he asked with a glance at her. She nodded. "How at the beginning of the Third Age, I and my brother Elros were offered the choice between mortality and immortality…"

"You chose immortality," she said with a smile.

He nodded. "I did. I….could not understand why anyone would willingly choose death when they might live forever. I still don't…not entirely." Briande almost spoke, but he was not finished. "I was—I grew to be a master of great wisdom," he said in a low voice. "I held…more of the knowledge of the earth—of Middle-Earth—than anyone except perhaps Galadriel, or the Istari. I knew the names of the Ents, where they slumbered in their deep forests—I could recite the tale of the forging of the Rings of Power, and the betrayal of the Enemy—I knew the story of the Silmarils and Fëanor's dreadful Oath, I could speak of Minas Tirith and Minas Ithil—I knew all the songs and histories of any people you might care to name, back to the days when the Trees of Gold and Silver were in bloom. This was known. Others knew this of me and spoke of me as Elrond the Wise…"

"Elrond," she said gently, "don't—"

"Of course Gandalf came to me with the question of the One Ring," he said wearily, and looked away. "I fought in the first War of the Ring, and I had studied the matter—as I had studied all else—since that time. I feared the Enemy, as it proved _wise_ to do—who else would the Istari approach with such a matter? He—or perhaps it was Aragorn—said it himself—'the strength of Elrond Half-Elven lies in wisdom not in weapons…'" He trailed off, turned, and looked up at the statue behind them briefly; Arwen's perfect face gazed blankly, vacantly out into the gardens above them.

"And?" Briande prompted, sensing there was something else.

He gave a heavy sigh and looked at her with a strange, edged smile that she had never seen on his face before. "And now my own daughter," he said, "thinks of me as a 'rustic, backwoods, ignorant dirtcrawler.'"

"Elrond, don't—"

"And she is _right,_" he added quietly, spreading his hands and looking down at them in the moonlight, his empty, useless hands. "What do I know of Seanchan? I have never been to Seandar, I have never seen the Court of the Nine Moons or the Crystal Throne of the Empress—I have never 'crossed the Aryth Ocean to Paendrag's Home,' never seen Tar Valon or Cairhien or Caemlyn—I don't even know what those places _are_—"

"Don't," she repeated, and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't do this."

"The knowledge that I have—that I hold of Middle-Earth, its mysteries, its past—it is _useless_ now," he said with the air of someone coming to a realization. "What earthly good is it," he asked, turning to look at her in something close to surprise, "that I know the complete tale of Luthien and Beren? What _purpose_ does it serve? Better that—that I had learned what a—a—Choedan Kal—is or of the—Breaking of the World—more relevant, anyway." He was silent for a moment, then added, glancing at her, "What _is_ a Choedan Kal?"

"It's a great _sa'angreal_," Briande replied quietly. "There are actually two of them, one for _saidar, _which is the female half of the One Power, and one for _saidin_, which is the male. They were made during the War of Power that ended the Age of Legends, intended as a final strike against the Dark One, but were never used for that purpose; it was thought that the risk was too great, for both together would certainly provide enough power to destroy the world. It was not until Great Tarmon Gai'don that—" She stopped at the look on his face. "Never mind," she finished lamely. "Did she actually _say_ that to you?"

He shook his head slowly. "Not exactly, but she did not have to. I simply suggested that she become something other than a _der'morat._ I said that Galadriel still held Lothlorien, that she might return to Imladris, and that was when she said—she said that she could not bear to give up the skies, to be trapped in one place like a…." He trailed off. "I understood," he said with a trace of bitterness. "I may be 'ignorant' but I am not unintelligent; I understood very well."

"You should not have suggested that to her," Briande murmured thoughtfully. "It is….somewhat insulting….to suggest to a _morat'raken_ or a _der'morat_ that they should give up the skies. Especially for a—"

"A 'dirtcrawler?'" he asked with a smile so sharp it almost cut. When Briande did not answer but dropped her eyes, he shrugged. "Ah well, what else can be expected from one who 'knows no more of the world than what he can see between his front door and the horizon?'" His voice was harsh, painfully self-mocking. Briande bit her lip, then moved over slightly so that her shoulder brushed his own. He paid her no heed, continuing to stare down at his hands where they rested in his lap like the remains of something broken and futile.

After a time he glanced at her. "What will you do, Celebrian?"

_Celebrian._ She smiled. "Did you know, the last time we spoke, every time you called me 'Celebrian'—if you had been _anyone_ else I would have challenged you? I was _this_ close to doing so, on more than one occasion." At his shocked expression she could not contain a laugh. "It is that much of an insult, in Seanchan, to call me by my _da'covale_ name….Even Arisae has never done so. I have called her Arwen on occasion, but she has never called me Celebrian. Of course, _she_ was never _da'covale._"

"If you wish it I will call you Briande," he said, watching her carefully. She smiled again and let herself lean against his shoulder.

"No. You may call me Celebrian if you wish," she said warmly. "Now, somehow, it doesn't bother me. At least, it doesn't bother me to hear you do so….my husband," she added deliberately.

He cautiously returned her smile. The two of them sat in silence for a time as the night breeze rustled the leaves in the trees and bushes around them, and sent gentle waves over the grass. Briande found herself quite content to sit thus, with her—husband—watching the night around them, putting all thoughts of Seanchan and of Arisae out of her head.

But she could not sit so forever. At last she sighed. "I can't do anything about it now," she said, answering his earlier question. "I haven't the resources with me at this garrison. When we cross the sea again to Seanchan, I will have to take steps. What kind, and how drastic….that will depend on her."

Elrond looked over at her. "How far will you go?" he asked inflectionlessly.

Briande closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them again, she met her husband's eyes directly. "As far as I have to," she said, her voice hard.

Elrond made no reaction; he merely looked down a little, but did not speak. She shook her head. "I should never have taken her from here," she said quietly, again. "I never should have. I didn't think—it didn't occur to me, but….There isn't room for two immortals in the service of the Crystal Throne."

* * *

Arisae Minabet Paendrag rose from the couch she had so recently shared with Sthenn and went to the window, looking out through a sheer drape of thinnest silk at the grounds of the house that had once been her home.

_No longer._ The thought came, unbidden, accompanied with a fierce sting of pride. No longer was her home this isolated place on the edge of the world where nothing ever happened. Now, if her home was anywhere, it was in the Court of the Nine Moons at Seandar—the heart of the One World.

Behind her, she heard Sthenn say in a sulky voice, "Arisae, where are you going? Come back here and—"

"Be silent," she said without looking around; Sthenn had many virtues, but a knowledge of timing was not one of them. Sthenn lapsed into the pouting silence of a spoiled child; the fabric of the bedclothes rustled behind her as he rose, and then he crossed the floor and put his arms around her.

"What are you looking at?" he asked in a slightly less petulant tone.

"The grounds. The gardens. Thinking how little has changed since the last time I saw them."

"Don't look at them. Look at _me_," he whined, and nuzzled her neck; she pushed him away in irritation and picked up her leather flight jacket from the floor where it had been dropped. As she shrugged into it and began doing up the front fastenings, Sthenn scowled a bit more, then shrugged himself; he began pulling on his own tunic and breeches.

"When was the last time you were here?" he asked, fastening his own jacket.

"A long, long time ago," she replied, then added with the faintest hint of an edged smile, "Over a thousand years." Her beautiful smile sharpened slightly as she saw him shiver out of the corner of her eye.

"It always gives me the creeps when you talk like that," he complained fretfully. "I'll tell ya, Arisae, it's not attractive at all."

"Sorry," she said smugly.

"A man doesn't like to know that he's embracing something that's older than the Rehhei dynasty, you know," he continued. "It's not a good feeling. It makes you feel like your lady could crumble to dust at any moment. Thank the Light you never talk like that during the act, at least; I think I'd have to leave you," he added idly.

"Try it, fool, and see where it gets you," she muttered under her breath; there were times when she seriously wondered what she ever saw in Sthenn. More than a few times, actually; while he was able to please her very well on occasion, this advantage was more than offset by his sulky, petulant, spoiled manner. He seemed to think that because she chose him to share her bed, this meant that he was entitled to monopolize every moment of her time and attention. And on top of that, there was his disturbing attraction to violence and suffering of all kinds. She was not particularly squeamish, yet witnessing the dark joy that Sthenn took in inflicting pain on others had unsettled her on more than one occasion. He was not particularly skilled as a _morat'raken_, and being one of the few male _morat'raken_ in the Ever Victorious Army had counted against him as well; he most likely would never have made it as far as he had if she had not taken an interest in him. In fact, in the few moments when she considered the matter honestly, she was at a loss to explain _why_ she was so attracted to him, except….except….

The thought hovered beyond the reach of comprehension for long enough that she pushed it away irritably. What, after all, did it matter? She found him acceptable, and that should be enough.

"Do you really think it was a good idea to speak so to the First General of the Air?" he asked now from behind her.

"You doubt me?"

"No, it's just that I think it would have been better if you had not told her now," Sthenn said. "You put her on her guard, Arisae; now she knows that we're after her."

"She would have known that anyway," Arisae said with a shrug. "All I did, we would have had to do sooner or later. And this way…." She trailed off for a moment, her gray eyes distant; Sthenn had seen this expression on his lover's face before. It usually meant, he mused disapprovingly, that she was feeling sentimental.

"At least she has fair warning," she finished quietly. Sthenn shook his head.

"You shouldn't have given her _any_ warning," he protested. "You should have waited and struck when she was not expecting it; this way she knows we're coming—"

"But I doubt," Arisae overrode him, "that she will expect us to strike as soon as we are planning to."

"When _are_ we planning to strike?" Sthenn asked fretfully. "Because if we're not planning to soon—" He stopped, staring at the Other Arisae as a thought came to him. "When _are_ we planning to strike?" he repeated.

Arisae said nothing, but her smile grew beautiful and lovely, like drops of blood edging a wound.

"You can't be serious," he said, aghast at his thoughts. "You can't—In front of the Daughter of the _Nine Moons?_"

"It's the perfect time and the perfect place," Arisae said, smiling.

"Are you _insane?_ If they let you do it—"

"I'll challenge. At investiture ceremonies there is always a moment where they ask if there are any objections to commissioning the new officer. That is when I will challenge."

"Arisae, that's just a _formality!_ Nobody ever actually—the last time anyone—"

"It was two hundred seventeen years ago, at the investiture of Alin Athaem Kore Paendrag—and led to the downfall of the Athaem dynasty," she added with a smile. "I know. I was there. I watched and remembered very carefully."

Sthenn was silent for a long moment, staring at her in something akin to awe, and then gave a slow grin of his own. "Unbelievable," he said. "Unbelievable. Only you, Arisae."

"You like it?"

"Oh yes. It's a _good_ plan. A _very_ good plan," he said, still grinning. "Only, if all the evidence is in place—"

"Oh, it is," she said confidently, turning to look out the window again. "Believe me. By the time I'm done, they'll be convinced that Briande participated in the downfall of the _last_ dynasty, let alone this one. Think of it," she added. "At one moment, both to denounce Briande to the assembled crowd for a traitor, and to kill her myself, while at the same time reaping the benefits of it for loyalty to the Crystal Throne. I will be surprised if I am not appointed Banner-General in Briande's place," she added, smiling.

"Good. Then it's set." He stopped and looked at her more seriously. "Now Arisae, if you don't have a problem killing your own mother—if you're not afraid of the Light's vengeance upon you for that act of impiety—" He paused out of fear—superstition—and looked at her. "You aren't, are you?"

_You aren't, are you?_

Arisae was silent at his question, her eyes shadowed in thought.

When she had left home so many years before at her mother's invitation, she had done so in the hope that in the world beyond, she would find the things that were denied her or beyond her in the world that she knew: Adventure. Importance. Discovery. Meaning. And perhaps—just perhaps—a tiny scrap of glory. Of honor.

And she had. She had found those things many, many times over. Long after the short, plain daughter of Men who had helped to set her feet upon this path had fallen into dust, Arisae had continued on; she had traveled further than she had ever dreamed, seen things the existence of which she had not even imagined—and of which, she suspected, her _father_ had not even imagined. She had gained wealth and riches, and, yes, glory and honor in her own right; she had helped to alter the course of wars and of dynasties. She had been granted at last a new name for her service to the Crystal Throne, and the lands of Minabet to go with it, and she had also gained—of all her acquisitions the one she valued most—the skies. The sense of freedom, of possibility, of _control_ that came when she bestrode a _raken'_s back and soared among the clouds, whether at the head of a massed flight of _rakens_ united for a purpose, or alone with only the sound of her mount's gently beating wings, the wind in her ears, the creaking of harness straps and flight leathers to fill the silence and endless space around her—that sense had never left her. It was worth as much as all the rest put together. Perhaps more.

Yes. She had gained everything and more that she had hoped for when she first set out from Imladris those many centuries ago, but somehow….somehow….it never seemed to be quite enough. There was always, somehow, one more glory that eluded her, one more honor not given, one more deed done by someone else and not by her that she had to match or surpass before she could rest in peace.

There was so little of either rest or peace in Seanchan.

And always—_always_—there was Briande standing before her. Taking the credit, the glory, the honor, that could have—should have—been hers. That Arisae needed—so desperately—as the years turned to decades, then to centuries, and she realized she was _still_ not done.

Her first thoughts of killing Briande—of the murder of her mother, a crime the Light abhorred as much as the killing of a father by a son—had been wild thoughts born out of the despair that had risen in her after the Second Jianmin Incident. There, she had at last—_at last_—been granted the title of Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ to the Ever Victorious Army, only to watch Briande ascend to First General of the Air. It had been made painfully clear to her then that she would rise no further until Briande was out of the way. Sthenn had not been with her then—he had not even been _born_ yet—and she had seen no way that she might do it; it was only later that her plans had begun to take shape—helped along, of course, when she realized what it was that _Briande_ was planning.

But until now, they had been plans more for theory than for practice; though she had seen clearly how it might be done, she had never quite been sure enough to do it. Before she had returned to home.

In the back of her mind, buried so deeply out of sight that she was almost unaware of it, she had held the hope that perhaps her return to home might bring her the finality, the peace she sought. The world, for all its wonder, was not quite what she expected; home had remained in her mind, untouched and pristine, as a place where rest and peace abounded. All through the journey across the ocean, from the docks of Shon Kifar, she had cherished a half-aware dream that she could return to this place—this life that she had led before—and that everything would be waiting for her unchanged.

It had been a child's dream of course; one that had died a fast and merciless death the moment she had set foot on the shores of Middle-Earth and the grounds of Imladris. Not because Imladris had changed, she was wise enough to realize, but because it had _not_ changed. It and her father had not changed in any significant way. She, on the other hand, had.

The buildings, the houses, the pavilions—those that had seemed so graceful and majestic to her as a child, filled with grandeur and splendor—were just as she remembered; the gardens, the fields were the same, every surface detail just as it was in her memory. But somehow, now to her eyes they looked not elegant and graceful, but flat, lifeless; _small_, certainly and perhaps even a trifle dingy, beside the soaring grandeur of the Palace of the Nine Moons, the Towers of Ravens and Midnight, the White Tower at Tar Valon, and the great, ancient city of Rhuidean. She felt no connection with them, no sense of place, of belonging, though she had run and played and dreamed among them as a child; now they were simply a bunch of buildings to her, buildings that were not as fine as those across the sea in Seanchan, and not buildings where anything of import would ever happen.

Her father also had not changed. In her memories, he had been the source of all wisdom, all goodness; she had thrilled with delight when he smiled at her and trembled with fear at his frowns—all the more so as his frowns were so rarely bestowed on her. He had been much, much taller than she—as tall as a tree or mountain—and infinitely wiser, with a dignity and gravity so great that it was both unapproachable and reassuring at once; nothing could take from him what he was, and what he was was equal to _any_ challenge. She need never fear as long as he was by, for he could and would protect her from any threat, solve any problem, overcome any difficulty that could face her.

She saw none of that in him now.

When they had landed at Imladris and ascended the steps to meet him, she had half-consciously expected to find the awesome, godlike figure of her memories waiting for them at the top of the stairs. Instead, she had seen only one of the Others, a _small_ man—she had been surprised at how small he was, only a little taller than she—looking tired and weary and defeated. Old, she had realized with a start. He had looked _old_ to her, and how that could be when he had not physically changed, she did not know. But he had. He was not the father of her memories.

It was then that she had realized. She could not return home again. There was no place of peace left for her. All there was now was the Court of the Nine Moons in Seandar, the chase for glory all that remained worth seeking.

And to gain that glory—all that was left her—Briande had to die.

She looked back at Sthenn.

Arisae's eyes were shadowed for a moment. "I have to," she said at last. "I have no other choice." She drew a breath. "And the fact that she's my mother will only make it better. They will see that I am loyal to the Throne above my own blood kin. It cannot help but boost my favor in the eyes of the Empress."

Sthenn's grin widened, becoming more predatory, more rapacious. "It is an _excellent_ plan, Arisae," he said, coming over to nuzzle her neck again. "Bold, daring…reckless….Only you, Arisae. Only you."

"Someday," she responded only, smiling herself, and slipped her arms around his neck.


	5. Challenge

The Daughter of the Nine Moons arrived in the morning, with a show of ceremony—not as much as there might have been, for she was traveling under the veil, but expansive ceremony enough. Her palanquin came, carried by four muscular _da'covale_ selected especially for the purpose, up the long and curving walk to Elrond's house; preceding her was a double file of ten Deathwatch guards, armed and grim-looking, Ogier all. Her courtiers rode before her, mounted on horses each worth the wealth that a crafter such as a smith or a glassmaker might see in a year; but they separated as they approached the house; only a few select ones, Truthspeakers and _so'jhin_ and oathguards, would join her in Elrond's house. The rest would stay in the garrison itself, or failing that, erect pavilions on the lawn. The luggage train was several times as long as the rest of the procession itself, consisting of servants and _da'covale_ carrying clothes and jewels and ornaments and perfumes, furnishings, tents, supplies, all the things that a court in motion might require. As lengthy as the procession was, it would have been several times longer if Riyath had come as the Daughter of the Nine Moons herself; one of the advantages to traveling under the veil was the loosening of many of the cumbersome formalities of court life. Still, as the Empress's palanquin came up the front steps to Elrond's front terrace, as it stopped there and High Lady Riyath's personal _so'jhin_ Amatya came forward to give Riyath her hand and assist her in stepping down from the litter, Elrond bowed low before her. Elrohir, also in attendance, bowed likewise, though his face was set in the immobility that Elrond knew covered deep dislike. The Seanchan, including Briande, Arisae, and Sthenn, along with the _morat'raken_ of the First Raken Flight all drawn up in attendance in a solid block facing the broad front steps, gave the full obeisance, of course; they knelt to the ground and touched their foreheads to the stones of the terrace.

It shocked Elrond, to see his wife and daughter behave so. He knew that it should not; as members of the Ever Victorious Army of Seanchan, they were permitted much less leeway in their behavior than he was. Despite Rivendell Garrison's distance from and relative unimportance to Seanchan, he had hosted more than a few members of the High Blood at Imladris during the thousand years since Little Tarmon Gai'don, including four times family members of the Empress herself, and twice those as high-positioned as High Lady Riyath. Because of that, he was aware that the Seanchan nobility tolerated from him—and from Galadriel as well, come to think of it, or so he recalled from the one time he had met Seanchan in her presence—what from a Seanchan would be an utterly horrifying level of disrespect, and that this tolerance was due solely to the fact that he was, as they called him, an Other. In Seanchan, Others were able, sometimes, to defy norms that humans could not break. Still, it was never more than tolerance, awarded only on an individual basis; though he had never met the noble who had demanded from him the full obeisances a Seanchan human was required to perform, he was aware that such a thing might indeed occur one day. He had wondered impersonally from time to time, what would happen when and if it did; for he knew himself to be unable at a visceral level to abase himself in the fashion required by Seanchan custom. He simply could not do it. It was not even a question of desire, it was almost a question of ability. For him to—to go down on his knees, to force himself to bow his head till it touched the earth, before _anyone,_ let alone a _human_—he could not and would not be able to perform such an act, no matter what the penalty. It was simply out of the question.

Of course, he mused distantly, looking to where his wife and daughter knelt with their heads touching the stones beneath them, he would have said the same of Celebrian and Arwen as well, and yet there they knelt as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He sighed and moved his gaze back to the Daughter of the Nine Moons.

The Daughter of the Nine Moons was short, with smooth, dark skin and huge, dark eyes; her face was heart-shaped. Her head was completely shaved, as was the custom of the Empress's family; lack of hair among the Seanchan was used to indicate one's status. Her nails were all an inch long, lacquered blue, and she moved with a consummate, almost—though not quite—Elven grace. Elrond would not have called her beautiful, certainly not by Other standards—_Elven standards_—but she was arresting. Where she walked, all eyes followed. And indeed, he thought as she advanced across the terrace, that was part of what made her so arresting. She knew that she was the center of all eyes, wherever she went; knew it, and moved as if she expected it to be so.

She surveyed those before her on the terrace for a moment, then held up her hands and gestured. The _so'jhin_ beside her watched her gestures, then said, "The High Lady Riyath Rehhei Kore Paendrag bids you all to rise and be _sei'taer_ in her sight." A rustle filled the terrace as the ranks of bowing _morats_ rose to their feet. Riyath watched, then nodded and gestured again, turning her eyes toward her _so'jhin._ "Elrond, Lord of Imladris and host of Rivendell Garrison by grace of the Empress of the Nine Moons (may she live forever)," the_ so'jhin_ Amatya continued, "High Lady Riyath requests shelter under your roof for the length of her visit here. She would be greatly honored were you to comply."

Elrond had already nodded before the _so'jhin_ finished her sentence; he knew exactly how much ability he had to refuse the request, which was to say, none. Still, he acquiesced gracefully. "The honor would be mine, not hers, to shelter such an illustrious guest. I have had rooms prepared for the High Lady and her entourage."

"They would be most appreciated," Amatya said after Riyath had finished flicking her fingers. "The hospitality of Elrond of Rivendell Garrison is known to be without equal across the length and breadth of Seanchan."

Elrond nodded; they were fine words that he had heard before, but still he was oddly and distantly pleased by it.

As the Daughter of the Nine Moons Riyath, accompanied by her _so'jhin_ Amatya, proceeded into the house proper, however, he could not help but notice Arisae. She was gazing at Briande with an expression that chilled his blood.

* * *

The investiture ceremony of Briande Duchen Paendrag into her new status as Third Banner-General of the Ever Victorious Army occurred that night, on the terrace. Lanterns had been lit, and burned in smoky orange and yellow and blue against the cool air of the night; they did not throw their light very far into the shadows of the night around, but far enough to illuminate the files of _morat'rakens_ drawn up. Those present at this ceremony were only _morat'rakens_ or _morat'to'rakens_, along with the commanders of the units of the Fists of Heaven.

It took place on the same terrace where the Conference of the Ring had taken place, back during what the Seanchan called Little Tarmon Gai'don; the paving blocks of the courtyard had been replaced since then, and showed lighter in the center than those around it. Elrond noticed the difference as he stood, on the west edge of the terrace—towards Seanchan—and waited for the ceremony to start.

The _raken_-riders were drawn up in solid blocks, to form a double aisle, down which Celebrian would come to be invested. The Daughter of the Nine Moons Riyath sat beside him, placed on a regal throne which raised her head above the level of the onlookers, with her _so'jhin_ Amatya kneeling at her feet. Celebrian advanced through the ranks, arrayed in lacquered armor, with her dual swords over her shoulders. She prostrated herself at the feet of Riyath's throne, until Amatya raised her to her feet.

"Rise," Amatya said, "and be _sei'taer_ in our sight, most worthy servant of the Crystal Throne."

The ceremony went on for a long time; the lamps that had been lit burned down in their sockets and the smoke drifted across the terrace. Elrond watched in silence, running his eyes across the assembled _morat'raken_, flicking his gaze surreptitiously up at the Daughter of the Nine Moons, and glancing away before she could spot him. The Daughter's speech, as revealed through Amatya, was distant and formal; Celebrian's replies were startlingly clear and cold. Elrohir was to be seen, off to the side, standing his distance with arms folded and icy. Arwen—Arisae—stood beside and behind Celebrian, with Sthenn with her, her gray eyes glittering and the edges of her teeth barely exposed.

At last the moment came when Amatya advanced, smiling at Celebrian. She had Celebrian kneel and take off her helmet, revealing those features so loved, so cherished to Elrond. A jar of clear water was at her side. She lifted it and poured it over Celebrian's head.

"Arise, Briande Duchen Paendrag, soldier of the Empire, and know that you are now Third Banner-General in the Empire."

"I rise, and thank you, Lady Riyath, for this office and this commission," Celebrian replied, unfolding her long body gracefully and rising to her feet. "I swear that I will strive to fulfill your charge to the best of my abilities, and to always be a loyal officer to the Empire of Seanchan."

Riyath smiled and flashed her fingers again; Celebrian had delivered that speech looking at her, though it was her _so'jhin_ who had delivered her words. Amatya said, loudly, "If anyone here present has any objection to make to this new appointment, let that man or woman come forth now and reveal it."

For a long moment, there was silence. Then, and it shouldn't have surprised Elrond, but it did, Arisae stepped forward.

The moment the words were out of Amatya's mouth, Briande knew what was coming, in a sudden flash of insight. She'd known Arisae would move, but until that second it hadn't occurred to her how _fast_—she'd underestimated the speed of youth, how she had—

I s_hould have known, _she thought as Arisae stepped forward under the light of the moon and the torches; her daughter moved with total confidence, the light glimmering silver on her helm and sword, and turned to face Amatya, and Briande knew at once the gist of what she would say. Hadn't she been there too, at the investiture, over two hundred years ago? Hadn't she planted the seeds there, that had led to that downfall? How had she not thought her daughter would do the same with her? For Arisae turned to face the crowd, held up her arms, and shouted, "High Lady Riyath, I challenge the investiture of Briande Duchen Paendrag!"

A loud gasp rose up from the throats of the assembled; heads jerked up from their solemn obeisance to stare at what was transpiring on the plaza. Amatya had gone still and was watching Arisae as if trying to decide what to do; the face of the High Lady Riyath herself was utterly expressionless. Elrond's face was white with horror, Briande saw distantly; she realized her knuckles hurt and that her hand was clamped on her sword hilt, but Arisae continued her speech, calling aloud without a look at her mother.

"I charge, High Lady Riyath and those of the crowd assembled, that Banner-General Briande Duchen Paendrag is a traitor to the throne of the Empress of the Nine Moons! I charge that she has been plotting for the past hundred years to cause the downfall of this dynasty and take her place! I charge—"

"_You lie!"_ Briande's cry rang out across the terrace, making the stones of Rivendell Garrison echo, and bringing Arisae's attention directly to her. She knew at that moment what she had to do. Perhaps her daughter knew as well, she saw, for Arisae turned to face her, and her gray eyes were gleaming with a frightening eager light. Briande started forward, each step heavy with iron and purpose, and pivoted to turn and face High Lady Riyath. "How _dare_ you spread such lies about your _commanding officer,_" she accused, looking over at Arisae. Back to Riyath; she dropped to her knees and touched her forehead to the pavement. "High Lady," she said, her voice suffused with earnestness, "I have_ never_ plotted the downfall of the dynasty. I am a loyal subject to the Empress of the Nine Moons (may she live forever) and the fact that I am being accused now by one so jealous of my position does not eliminate that fact! My record of service to the throne speaks for itself! Is this the record of a traitor?" Riyath's dark eyes glimmered. She could have been thinking anything behind them. "My loyalty has always been to the Empire of Seanchan and the Crystal Throne! I swear! I will prove it by my life! By my life! It is Arisae Moribet Paendrag's jealousy alone that leads her to concoct this ridiculous—"

Riyath's fingers flashed. Amatya said only, "Enough." She gazed at both of them. "Trial has been asked for, Briande Duchen Paendrag; stand _sei'taer_ and answer."

Briande rose, feeling that this all had to be a nightmare somehow, knowing, even as she did, what her only answer had to be. "I do, High Lady of the Blood."

Riyath looked at the two of them, and her fingers twitched. Amatya said quietly, "Let a weapon be fetched for Arisae."

* * *

Elrond watched in desperation as Sthenn stepped forward, carrying Arwen's weapon, as the _morat'raken_ were cleared back from the platform on which Riyath stood, as the braziers and lamps were moved out of the way. His eyes could not leave the pale, so-beautiful face of she who had been his wife; Celebrian could have been carved from marble as she stood there in the moonlight, watching his daughter. _His daughter?_ No, not his daughter now….he saw no trace of Arwen in the features of the Seanchan _der'morat'raken_ who swung her sword, testing the weight, the balance, and gave a terrifying smile to Celebrian. He wished with all his heart that he could do something to avert the proceedings, but could not; he did not dare to look at Elrohir beside him, though he knew Elrohir must be as shocked as he was. He yearned to look away, to deny the spectacle of his wife—no wife—and his daughter—no daughter—facing to kill one another, and failed.

Amatya was speaking now, as the two of them faced each other, cool and perfect in the moonlight; but he could not hear what she was saying, could not see anything other than the glimmering silver light that reflected off their blades. The two of them waited as Amatya stood between them, both poised in perfect aspects of potentiality. Silent. Waiting.

Then Amatya stepped back. Her hand flashed down.

For a long moment, nothing happened. There was no movement from either of them. They stood, just as they were, statues. Each paused. Each poised. Each determined to wait the other out. Elrond could not imagine what Celebrian must be feeling at this moment. Silence. Stillness.

Then, after a time, it seemed an age—_motion._

Looking back on it later, he could not tell who had moved first, was it his daughter or his wife, though he would guess that it must have been Arwen; knowing Celebrian as he did, he could not imagine—even with the Death of Ten Thousand Tears as incentive—that she could bring herself to strike the first blow at her daughter. But he would not reason thus until later. At that moment, all he saw was a flash of silver. Two flashes, two gleaming streaks, as two slender, curving swords sprang up to meet one another and metal rang with metal through the night air.

The watching _morat'raken_ were silent with the silence of awe. Amatya and Riyath were silent with the silence of judgement. He, and his son, were silent with the silence of disbelief. The two women locked, blade to blade, struggled a moment, then one of the two forms—appearing the same, in torchlight and armor—thrust the other back. She stumbled. The first form followed, slashing downwards, only to be blocked with the clang of steel on steel. Sparks jumped from the shining crescent-moon of blade, and the attacker reeled back, the attacked pursuing. Riyath's dark face was expressionless as she watched.

Around the circle of terrace, Briande and Arisae went, striking, retreating, advancing, moving with a speed and fluidity beyond the reach of humans; they fought almost bonelessly, moving in a continuous flurry of motion and agility, flowing like water from slash to parry to thrust to slash again and again, from form to form. Elrond knew enough about Seanchan fighting to recognize some of the forms they used—Leaping Tiger, Pruning the Hedges, River Undercuts Mountain—but they were moving so fast he doubted a human could have followed it. They moved almost like—once, a _very_ long time ago, he had seen two Myrddraal, captured by the Seanchan and carried in the entourage of one of the Blood, for what purpose he could not remember; had seen them, and felt the glance of the Eyeless. They had moved with the same boneless motion his wife and daughter moved with now.

The combatants locked blades again, and turned, and he saw Celebrian's face, a flash of bared teeth and blue eyes and blonde hair; there was nothing maternal in it now. She was fighting for her life. She set her stance, her shoulders bracing and pushing with her legs, and then there was a flurry of movement, and now it was Arwen's face in the moonlight, her gray eyes locked with intent, her black hair escaped and wild around her face. Again, the two of them moved, as the Seanchan _morat'raken_ watched in silent shock, as Riyath looked on, emotionless, as Sthenn grinned nastily in the background. Elrond could not look away. He dared not. Either way, the outcome for him would be nothing short of disastrous.

Clash and clash and clash; glints of light and two dark figures strove across the cracked stones of the terrace. The Seanchan watched in silence. It was hard to tell which was which; they moved in and out of the moonlight, the torchlight, and seemed to Elrond's not inexperienced eyes to be evenly matched, with nothing to choose between them. The air rang with ringing metal, and the heavy breathing and occasional snarled curses of the combatants.

"_Do something!"_ Elrohir hissed beside him, staring at him with his mother's wide blue eyes, but Elrond could think of nothing to do, could only stand there helplessly as his wife and his daughter strove with one another. Desperately he tried to formulate a plan, a strategy, some idea, but nothing came to mind; there was nothing he _could_ do, not while the Daughter of the Nine Moons herself sat there; the two-feather general Kallar Derrin beside her, the commander of Rivendell Garrison.

He was still turning over plans in his mind when a shout rang out. Arisae's foot slipped out from under her, and she fell with a heavy crash against the low railing around the terrace, her arms flung out, her gray eyes wide and staring up at Briande. Briande's face was in shadow; she slid closer, her sword raised above her head, preparing to strike.

"_Mother!"_ Arwen cried in the voice of a child. Briande's blade wavered in its stance; she hesitated for a tiny fraction of a second; and then Briande's weapon fell from her hands as Arisae Moribet Paendrag rolled to her knees and drove her own steel right through Briande's body.

* * *

It burned. It felt icy, cold like fire; that was her first impression; that and the look of savage triumph in Arisae's eyes. Arwen's face filled her vision—her gray eyes wide against her smooth, flawless skin. Her teeth glimmered in a smile. She was close enough that she could have reached out and laid her cheek against her mother's as she had when she was a baby. Then Briande's world jarred, and she realized that she had fallen to her knees; a rush of air past her told her that Arisae had risen.

* * *

"_Mother!!"_ Elrohir cried. Elrond scarcely heard him. His heart had stopped beating. Almost without his own volition, he crossed the open courtyard to his wife's side. _No, no, please, not this, not her, not now…._

He dropped to his knees beside her sprawled form, and with shaking hands lifted her up. Her blood stained his fine robes, but he paid it no attention. Her face was rapidly graying, and her eyes were rolling back in her head. "Celebrian," he whispered to her, speaking Sindar. "Celebrian, my wife, please, do you hear me? Do you hear me?" She coughed, a bright spray of blood red on her lips. Her breathing was shallow and too fast. "My wife, please," he repeated, over and over, shaking her, feeling the weakness of her limbs, the softness of her muscle tone. In some distant world he was aware of the eyes of the Daughter of the Nine Moons, of the _morat'raken,_ of the court; aware of them and he damned them all. "Celebrian, Celebrian, please, please, answer me," he implored her. "Answer me."

He could hear Arwen, behind him; she had risen and was declaiming, "You see, High Lady Riyath, that I have proven the truth of my accusations! First General of the Air Briande Duchen Paendrag was a traitor to the throne of Seanchan! She was plotting to destroy and undermine the Crystal Throne! She sought to bring about the death and destruction of the Empress! I have proof that she was secretly funding the Fai Angan resistance! It was First General Briande who was behind the Crystal Tower Plot to murder the Empress's sister! First General Briande who engineered the N'Kon uprising! It was none other than she whom I have defeated here who sold the secrets of _soe'feia_ Truthspeaker Eleui to the Sh'boan of the Sharan Empire, all the way across the Aryth Ocean and the Westlands! Briande who contracted with the Aiel to murder the Empress's peace envoy! Briande who—" Elrond was aware of her words washing dimly over him, but had no thought to spare for them, chafing Celebrian's wrists over and over again and murmuring softly to her, begging her to stay with him, telling her that he had lost so much, he couldn't bear to lose her too, not now, not here.

"She's lying," Briande muttered, coughing up more blood.

"My wife…?" His heart leapt into his throat; he clasped her close. "Celebrian—"

"She's lying." One of Celebrian's arms crept, shaking, around his neck; she struggled feebly and almost collapsed. "She's lying." Her breath was coming in short spurts. "I never did that. I never did any of that." Coughing, choking, she threw her weight on him; her entire body was trembling so badly she could barely support herself. Clutching him for balance, she managed to make it as far as her knees. "Get me out of here," she said, clutching him and coughing again. "Get me out of here."

Celebrian hung on his neck like deadweight, but somehow he managed to bear her to her feet; she clutched him like a drowning woman, for she could not support herself. Arisae's litany went on and on in the background, but Elrond could no longer make any sense of it; nor did he try, bending all his effort to help his wife rise. Celebrian took a step, then another one, and stumbled, almost dragging him down with her; he lifted her with an effort, and carried her toward the back of the terrace, into the house, as Arisae continued her denunciation. None of the _so'jhin_ or guards tried to stop him.

_Why should they?_ Elrond reflected with the bitterness of despair. _Celebrian is already dead. My wife is already dead._


	6. Father and Daughter

He carried her down the colonnaded corridor to the room she had slept in the night before; the coverlet was finely woven, and would stain, but that was of no account to him. She had put both her arms around his neck and was mumbling, both in the slurring Seanchan speech and in the elven tongue, but her words were too low for him to make out more than a little, and there was nothing coherent in what she was saying. Her head drooped on her neck, and her clasp on him was weak.

Some of the servants were emerging from the shadows behind him; "Light," he commanded them harshly, and with looks of pity, they went away, returning with glowing Seanchan _sar-_lights in crystal stands. Elrond felt a brief urge to smash them against the wall; it passed mercifully. He laid her down, and felt rapidly about Celebrian's body, finding the latches that held her strange armor closed and pulling the lacquered metal pieces off. Once he got it off her he could see better. The wound that Arisae had given her was high on her chest; it had almost certainly pierced her right lung, which accounted for the blood on her lips, but it was not likely to be immediately fatal.

That was her misfortune, he realized. For the Death of Ten Thousand Tears awaited.

A few sharp orders to the solemn servants brought bandages, water, medicines. He did what he could for her, his wife, trying to save her, trying not to think about the fate he was saving her for…wondering if he should save her at all. The servants watched, silently, from the shadows, as he poured forth his healing craft to save his wife.

"Father?" Elrohir faltered, and Elrond turned to see his son beside him, his face streaked with tears. When he had come in from the terrace, Elrond couldn't remember. "Father? Is—is Mother—will she--"

"I don't know," Elrond snarled at him, then softened, seeing the pain on his son's face. "I don't think so. I might be wrong. Here. Help me." The cloths he had been using to stanch the flow of blood from Celebrian's wound were red and dripping; he pulled them away. "Hand me those, over there, from the bowl, the ones soaking in the herbal water." He took them from Elrohir's hands, thinking curses to himself, remembering the last time he had done this for his wife; when Elrohir and Elladan had won her back from the orc-dens. This time was horribly like that time; with a flash of shock, he realized he was even in the same room where he had tended to her last time. As he laid the new cloths against her wound, he damned the Seanchan to the lowest level of hell, in the depths of his heart.

Elrohir took his mother's hand and sank down beside the bed, talking to her softly. Elrond could have chased him out, but refrained; perhaps her son could give her an incentive to live. He worked, trying to forget everything that had just happened, trying to focus on his wife alone, on saving her life, only that.

Bootheels clocking down the corridor jerked him back to the world, and he looked up from Celebrian's body to see Arisae, silhouetted in the doorway.

She was not alone. She had Deathwatch Guards with her, standing one to either side, and Sthenn was at her right hand, smiling. She was clad in armor, and helmeted, and the fatal blade was still in her hand, red and dripping with her mother's blood.

"How do you _dare_ come here!" Elrohir's cry rang throughout the room.

Arisae ignored him. She stepped in, and Elrond suddenly realized where he had seen that level of smooth confidence before: High Lady Suroth, over a thousand years ago. She moved with her gray eyes half-lidded and her face utterly expressionless—but Elrond thought he saw a slight smile on her ruby lips.

Celebrian stirred as Arwen stepped into the room and opened her blue eyes; they wandered a little, then fixed on her daughter's face.

"Arisae," she whispered. The room went silent. The air was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Elrond realized he wasn't breathing.

Arisae brushed past her brother as if he were beneath her notice, and took her mother's hand. "Forgive me, Mother," she said softly. "I had to. Perhaps, if you had more time, you could come to understand." She raised her mother's hand to her lips and kissed it, oddly gentle. Then she rose to her full height. "Now, _I_, Arisae Moribet Paendrag, am Banner-General in your place. And I might," she added, "go higher yet, with luck. Take comfort in that, Mother," she said coolly; Celebrian's lips moved as if she were trying to speak, but nothing came out. "Your daughter has made Banner-General." She offered a slight bow, and turned; unhurriedly, she left, drawing the _so'jhin_ and Sthenn in her wake.

Elrohir stared after his sister for a moment, his eyes wide, then he lunged to his feet. "Arwen!" Elrond heard him shout as he shoved through the doorway. His cry rang down the corridor hall outside. _"Arwen!!"_

Celebrian's eyes found his. Her lips moved again. Elrond leaned close to hear her; they might have been the only two in the room. "Go after him."

He closed his eyes and brought her hand to his forehead, clasping it close enough that he could feel the fine bones in her fingers. "I can't." _I can't leave you,_ he thought, though he did not say.

"_Go."_ She blindly groped toward him, clutched his shoulder. _"Go._"

He squeezed her fingers even more tightly, then put her hand down; he could not refuse her. Not now. He rose to his feet, and followed.

* * *

Even before he reached the terrace, he could hear angry shouts; it was enough to make him quicken his step down the colonnaded hall. He emerged into the moonlit dais. The blocks of Seanchan _der'morat'raken_ had cleared the plaza; he guessed distantly that they had been dismissed by Arisae or by Riyath, not that he cared. All he cared about was the drama ahead of him.

"_Arwen! Arwen!"_ Elrohir was screaming at his sister, with such force that the cords were standing out on his neck. _"Arwen! How could you—how COULD you! She was our MOTHER! Does that mean NOTHING to you, Arwen? Does that mean nothing?"_

His sister whirled in the moonlight, perfect and slender in dark armor, blade unsheathed. "My name is _Arisae!_"

"_Our mother—"_

"She is not my mother!" Arisae replied. "_Arisae Minabet Paendrag _has no mother. She was a _traitor_ to the Crystal Throne, a _traitor_ to the Empress of Seanchan, and I fulfilled my duty as a Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ in protesting the installation of this traitoress as Banner-General. No, Elrohir of the Others_,_" she said sternly, her face shuttered, "Briande Duchen Paendrag deserved to die_._ She deserved it, for her crimes against the Empress of Seanchan. I was simply carrying out the sentence. Should she die now, she will have received a more merciful fate than she deserved."

Elrond saw what happened next in a series of flashes; it was as if the events were too horrible for his mind to put them together into a coherent narrative.

The demon who wore Arwen's face raised her bloody blade.

Elrohir stared at her. His blue eyes were wide; he was shaking, trembling, his breath coming too fast. His eyes locked on her face.

Arwen looked at the blade that bore her mother's blood.

She looked back at her shaking brother

She _smiled._ That smile would haunt Elrond for the rest of his life.

The smile was all it took. Elrohir gave a cry of sheer agony, and launched himself across the terrace at Arisae.

At once, frenzied activity exploded on the terrace. With a look of shock on her face, Arwen's first reaction was to throw the sword from her, else Elrohir would have spitted himself on her blade. The blade clattered to the stones of the terrace, the heron engraved on the side shining uselessly in the lamplight. In the next instant, her brother had locked his hands around her throat and was doing his level best to choke her. Arwen had raised her hands and was clutching at his wrists. The _so'jhin_ and the Ogier Deathwatch Guards rushed to her side, and had locked their hands around Elrohir's arms, trying to pull him away, but he was holding on with the strength of the insane, grinding his fingers into his sister's throat. Horrified, Elrond heard himself calling for his son to stop, but no one paid him any heed. It seemed to go on forever, it was as if the moment itself had fractured, split off from anything else, had no beginning and no ending.

"_Stop! Stop!"_ he heard himself shouting as if from a distance. _"Elrohir, stop this madness! Stop!"_ and even as he heard himself, he was aware of the real edge of panic in his voice; all he could think was that he had just lost his wife and now he was about to lose either his son or his daughter. As he shouted, Arwen brought her steel-clad knee up and kicked her brother in the gut. It was enough to break his grip, and Elrohir stumbled back, to be grabbed by two of the hulking Ogier and pressed to the stone flooring of the terrace. His son was sobbing, huge racking sobs as if his heart was broken. Arwen had bent almost double and was rubbing her neck, gulping air; her backrider—Sthenn—went to her side.

As she put her arm around him, she raised her head and looked right at her father. Her look struck him to the heart. The superconfident Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ was nowhere in evidence there; she looked as she had looked as a child. Young. Stricken. He knew such a look was in his own eyes as well, because he knew enough of the Seanchan to understand what had just happened.

Arisae Minabet Paendrag was a member of the Blood. Elrohir had just attacked her without provocation. That was treason.

_It is death by slow torture to lay hands on a member of the Blood of Paendrag._

Father and daughter stared at each other, as the Ogier hauled Elrohir away.

* * *

"You have to free him."

Arwen laid her helmet down restlessly on the small table in her chambers. "Father, I can't."

"You _have_ to," Elrond insisted.

"Father, I _can't!_" She ran her hands through her short-cropped dark hair. They were shaking.

"Can you not forgive the attack? You are _Blood,_ after all," Elrond said bitterly.

"Father, you _don't understand_. This isn't like the kingdoms you knew of old, where the rulers would dispense justice as they saw fit. Seanchan is a government of laws and not of men and women, and not even the Blood are above the law. Only the Empress of the Nine Moons (may she live forever) can set aside the law, and even so she cannot act with impunity. It has to be this way," she insisted as she saw her father's uncomprehending look. "Seanchan is too big to work as the lands of Gondor and Arnor did in the days of old. There has to be one set of laws that can be applied across the entire empire, or else the realm will fall apart. There is a saying," she continued. "'The hand of justice requires motive and proof, even for _damane_ and _da'covale'_; this means that no matter how _sei'mosiev_ or _sei'taer_ in the eyes of the world, all those who dwell within the realm of Seanchan stand within the purview of the law, both protected and chastened by it. I _do not have the power_ to overturn it—even for the sake of he who was once my brother."

"'He who was _once_ your brother?'" Elrond spat. "And who does your Empress think she is, to make laws in this fashion? Does she set herself up as Ilúvatar?"

"That Empress is your Empress too, Elrond of Rivendell Garrison," Arisae said in such a forbidding tone that Elrond was chilled. "May she live forever," she added as an afterthought. "And no," she continued, less forbiddingly. "The Empress doesn't _make_ the laws, most of them; they were handed down from the past, from a time before my time, one so distant and ancient for the sons of Men that no one really knows _where_ they came from. The laws make themselves, Father. Seanchan is a bureaucracy—"

"A _what?"_

"Never mind." She raised her hands to cover her face; they were still shaking, and her voice was uneven. "Just understand, Father—_I_ cannot set the laws aside. The Empress, and only the Empress (may she live forever) can do that.

"Father, Elrohir broke the law. He attacked a member of the Blood, without provocation—"

"Without provocation?" Elrond demanded incredulously. "You—You—" He choked on his next words.

"The High Lady Riyath was standing _right there!_" Arwen insisted. "What was I supposed to do, _grieve_ for a traitor whom _I myself_ had exposed?" But she flinched and looked away as she said it.

_She knows she has done wrong._ That, in itself, infuriated him almost more than anything else that had happened this long and terrible night. "I will tell you now, _Daughter,"_ he said, hearing an ugliness in his voice that he had not heard for a long time, "had Elrohir not attacked you right then, I would have struck you down the next instant." The moment he said it, he was ashamed of himself—more so when he saw the look in her eyes—but he could not call the words back. _Arwen, what have they done to you?_ _To me? To all of us?_

They had been facing each other across the small, round table where Arwen's helmet now rested; as if by common agreement, they both turned away, pacing the confines of Arisae's room. For his part, Elrond was regretting what he had just said, but he knew of no way to call it back—and, he admitted, he would probably say it again, given the chance. Arisae, he saw when he glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, was pale under her tan, her eyes were hollow and haunted.

"Save him, Arisae," he said at last, pleading with her. "Please. Save Elrohir."

Arwen covered her face with her hands. From behind that protective shield, she said, "Father—"

"Please, Arisae," he went on, with no real strength to his voice--he was beaten, and he knew it, by these Seanchan. "Please. I have—I have lost my wife and my daughter and my son. Elrohir is all I have left. Arisae, you are Blood. You are of Seanchan. You have power. If there is a way to save him, you must know it. You _must_. Arisae, please."

Arisae looked at him. "He broke the law. And the law must be obeyed. Everywhere. For Seanchan's sake."

Elrond shook his head. _Why does she keep saying that? What does that have to do with anything?_ She was the one offended against, he thought; she should be able to set aside the penalty if she so required, and he could not fathom the reason why she was not choosing to. _She _could_ free him,_ he was forced to conclude, _she just does not _want_ to._ He said as much aloud, angrily. "You do not _want_ to."

"Father, please. You don't understand."

He stared at her for a long time. She didn't meet his eyes. After a long moment, he asked, "What…what do you wish of me, my daughter? What is your—your price—for sparing the life of my son?"

"Father…"

"Name it. If it is—" He swallowed. "If it is within my power to give, it will be yours, my daughter. Name it. For the life of Elrohir—"

"You are asking for something that I cannot do, nor," she added as an afterthought, "do you have anything that would be of any worth to me."

"Arwen, he is your _brother!_"

She flinched; and he knew it for a mistake; the words were too close to the words that Elrohir had flung at her before. An icy pall descended over her face. "_Arisae Minabet Paendrag_ _has_ no brothers."

"Arisae—"

"Enough, Elrond of the Others. The subject is closed." She picked her helmet up from the table and raised it to her head, fastening its strap beneath her chin. She started for the door.

Elrond moved to block her path.

"_Arwen,"_ he said, and looked down into her eyes, trying to show her his heart. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open in shock. Her gray eyes were pools that seemed to go on forever. "Please. I—" He swallowed. "He is my son. He is all I—he is all I have left. All I have left in the world. I have nothing else beside him. Please. I cannot—I cannot save him, I do not-- You are the only one who can help me, daughter. Please, I beg of you."

"Father," she whispered back. "I can't."

Elrond stared down at his daughter, and he saw at once in her face that he had lost. Arisae was not going to help him. He was going to lose Elrohir, the only one of his children—the only one of his _family_—he had left. He was suddenly, acutely aware of the air in his chest, of each individual heartbeat. Elves were familiar with eternity, and now, it seemed as if each second had stretched out to eternity. He had failed to convince her to help him, and what avenue of appeal could reach her now?

He had not known what he was going to do next until he felt himself doing it. Slowly, he felt himself sinking before her, until his knees were pressed against the cold, hard stone of the floor. He had always wondered, he thought in some distant part of his mind, what would happen if he had ever met a Seanchan noble who demanded the full obeisance from him; had thought he could not bring himself to lower himself before a human. It was not a human he lowered himself before now. It was his daughter.

"Father, what are you doing?" Arwen's voice shook. "Father, what are you doing?"

He had seen Seanchan do this dozens—hundreds—of times before, in the presence of members of the High Blood, but he had never thought to do it himself; he had never done it before, either, and had to search his memory for what came next. After a moment, it came; his hands went flat on the floor before him.

"Father, _stop!_ _Stop!_" Arwen cried, sounding frightened. "What are you doing? Get up!"

He looked up at her. Her face was white as a sheet, and her eyes were wide; he was careful not to meet her eyes, because as a Seanchan, she stood above him, and she had not given him permission to be _sei'taer_. She had been so quiet as a child, he remembered again, so helpful, so trusting and gentle. He swallowed again, around some sort of blockage in his throat; when he spoke, it came out almost a whisper. He tried to approximate the formula as best as he could, as he had heard it spoken by Seanchan before him. It came to him with difficulty; it was not natural to him at all. "Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken_ Arisae Minabet of the Blood of Paendrag, this….unworthy one, Elrond of the Others….most humbly beseeches and implores your aid in this matter." He added to it, almost inaudibly, "Arwen….please. Your father begs you. Spare my son." And, completing the full obeisance, he leaned forward and placed his forehead on his hands where they lay flat on the ground.

He heard her voice coming to him from a distance, but did not see her; she was almost sobbing, "Adar, get up! Get up! _Please_ get up! Don't do this! Don't!" but he did not move. He did not speak; he had exhausted speech. He heard the clank of her armor hitting the stones of the room's floor; she was begging him, pleading with him as he had pled with her before. Then he felt her hands, closing around his shoulders, shaking him, tugging at him, trying to pull him up. She was stronger than he remembered. "Get up, adar, please, adar, please! You're…you're hurting me! You're hurting me," she added in a whisper; he heard her give a choked sob.

_And you, my daughter, are hurting me,_ he thought, but did not say. Inside, his heart was breaking. He felt Arwen tugging at him again; then the cold weight of the lip of her helmet as she rested her head on his shoulder. She was weeping; he could feel her hot tears soaking through the fabric of his robes. She had done so as a girl. He could not count the number of times he had held her and comforted her as a child, when she had wept in just this fashion at the simple hurts of childhood. "Adar, please," she begged him.

"Spare my son." He did not recognize himself as speaking the words.

"I'll—" She swallowed. "I'll see what I can do, maybe if I work—if I work on the High Lady Riyath, remind her that he's an Other and not a human, I may be able to get a lighter—maybe I can earn him the Flower Garrote, it's fast and painless, and maybe—maybe—" She did not finish. "That's _all_ I can do, adar, _please_, I would do more if I could, but I—I _can't_. That is the _absolute maximum _I can do. All right?" Her voice was steadier now, though it still trembled a bit. She had removed her head from his shoulder; he heard her armor clank again as she sat up. "All right?" He did not answer. "Father, _look _at me!" Anger this time, he could hear the raw edge in her voice. "Be _sei'taer,_ under the Light!"

He raised his head. She had sat back on her heels, and though the tears were still drying on her face and her lips still trembled, her eyes were shuttered again. He could tell that the moment he had opened up—the moment in which he could reach Arwen—had closed again. He would get no more from her.

He bowed his head again, till it touched the smooth stones underneath him; this time, not with the numbness that he had felt before, but with an exquisite, stinging bitterness. "This unworthy one, Elrond of the Others, expresses his humble gratitude for your graciousness, O Exalted Supreme _Der'Morat'Raken._" He was too tired, too weary and too defeated, to hide the biting sarcasm in his voice.

Arwen did not answer. She simply rose, and turned; he heard her footsteps as she walked away.


	7. End

"_I've missed you."_

_She could not see. Someone was holding hands over her eyes. She reached up to grasp the wrists of whoever it was, but they twisted away. "Ah, ah," she was chided. "Guess who."_

"_I can't guess."_

"_Me, silly!" The hands dropped away, and Celebrian found herself face to face with…_

"_Oh Light, oh, Ciriel…." The words were almost a sob._

_The other Elfmaiden stood before her, as she had seen her last—and not. When she had last seen Ciriel, the woman had been lying on a filthy pallet in a dark and noisy _to'raken_ stable, skeletal and emaciated from the effects of the wasting disease that had killed her. The woman who stood before her now, in a field of bright and colorful flowers overarched by a crystal blue sky, was Ciriel as Celebrian had never seen her, even when they had first met in the _da'covale_ kennels of the Empress of Seanchan: this was Ciriel healthy and whole. As she might have been had she been raised in Arda._

_Ciriel held out her hands and smiled gaily. Celebrian could not speak. She could only run her eyes over the other Elfmaiden, from her long and flowing blonde hair—lustrous and vibrant, radiant with health and light—to her blue eyes, clear and sparkling with life and vitality, to the healthy flush in her cheeks. Her face was no longer carved with the stark lines of emaciation; now she had the healthy bloom of an Elf in full flower of youth and life. _

"_Well? What do you think?" Ciriel whirled and the white dress she wore fanned out around her. "Are you glad to see me again?"_

"_Ciriel…" Celebrian choked, and began to cry. She could not help herself. The other Elfmaiden had meant so much to her—had been the only thing that had kept Celebrian whole and sane during her first years as a Seanchan _da'covale_ shea dancer. Even as she died, she had been thinking of Celebrian—with her dying breath she had extracted the promise that had given Celebrian the strength to go on without her, though it had almost ripped her heart out to do so. And—and now, to see her again after so long…._

"_No, no, Celebrian, don't do that, don't do that," Ciriel said in alarm, and went to her. Celebrian felt Ciriel's warm touch on her face wiping away her tears. "There's no need for that! I'm here now. I'm here. Didn't I tell you that the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and we would meet again in a better place?"_

"_Ciriel, I'm with you. I'm with you," Celebrian said over and over again, laughing through her tears. She knew she was grinning foolishly, and couldn't help it. "I'm with you. At last, I'm with you."_

"_That's right," Ciriel replied warmly. "You're with me."_

_Celebrian put her arms around the other Elfmaiden, clasping her close in an embrace, scarcely able to believe that at last, she was again holding her in her arms. "You're here. You're here. But…" She stopped, and stepped back, looking around in confusion. "Where is 'here?' This isn't…this isn't the halls of Mandos…"_

"_The where?" Ciriel asked in confusion, and only then did Celebrian remember that Ciriel had been born in Seanchan, not in Arda. "No, this is Tel'aran'rhiod. The dream country. All souls go here, while they are waiting for the Pattern to spin them out again. You know of this place, I know you do—it's the place the Aiel Dreamwalkers frequent. Here, let me look at you." Ciriel ran her eyes over Celebrian now and smiled spontaneously. "Ai, _look_ at you!" she cried in pleasure. "_Der'morat'raken_—did I not tell you you could go far?"_

_Celebrian looked down at herself and realized that she was in the armor of a _der'morat._ "I—It was because of you, Ciriel," she admitted, looking at the other Elfmaiden. "I could never have done it if—oh, Ciriel, you did so much for me, so much more than you know, so much more than you could ever understand—"_

"_I'm so proud of you," Ciriel said, her eyes glowing. "You've made me proud, Celebrian. You've made me proud. My Celebrian—a _der'morat_." _

"_Ciriel….I've missed you so much—I thought I was never going to see you again—" Tears filled her eyes. She reached out. Ciriel met her with a bright smile and open eyes, and for a time, speech was beyond the two of them._

"_You can't stay here," Ciriel told her, when words again became possible._

"_What do you mean, I can't stay here?" Celebrian asked, afraid. A tinge of gloom had come into the bright and tranquil setting with those words, and there was a touch of sadness in Ciriel's bright face now. "I'm with you again. You said—why can't I stay?"_

"_Oh, you _can,_" Ciriel hastened to assure her, taking her hand and pressing it against the side of her face, "but not _yet._ You'll have to go back, and very soon."_

"_But I want to stay with you, Ciriel! I just found you again, after a thousand years alone, and now you're telling me I must _leave_ you again?" Celebrian almost choked on the unfairness of it all. "Why can't I stay here? I can't go now, I have so much to tell you—"_

"_It's not for a long time, just a little time," Ciriel hastened to assure her. "Don't sulk,_ mel—_what was that phrase you taught me? Those words of the Others?"_

"_Mellon nin," Celebrian said, and managed a smile in spite of herself._

"_Don't sulk,_ mellon nin,_ it doesn't become you," Ciriel chided her, smiling. "You have to go back, but it's only for a short while, a very short while indeed. You're still alive, you see; the only way someone can stay in Tel'aran'rhiod is if they're already dead. You're touching the Dream Country, but you have enough life force left to hold you to the real world. Even as we speak, you and I, it draws you back. See?" she asked indicating that Celebrian should look down. She did, to find that her body was fading underneath her; she was already transparent in outline._

"_But I don't _want_ to go back!" Celebrian cried, angry. "I want to stay with you! I just found you again! Don't leave me! Not again! Ciriel! Don't leave me!"_

"_Farewell,_ mellon nin…._I will see you again…in a little while…."_

"_Ciriel!_ Ciriel!"

* * *

"_Ciriel! Ciriel!"_

Elrond jerked up with a start.

He had returned to Celebrian's bedside, after the confrontation with Arwen; he could do nothing more for his son. Little more for his wife, either, but at least, tending her, that was a problem within his skill. He had been waiting next to her bedside, but he must have drifted off, because her cry startled him.

"Celebrian?" he asked softly, looking over at her. "Celebrian, what—"

He stopped, startled, for tears were drying on Celebrian's face. "Ciriel," she whispered. "I saw Ciriel. She left me."

"My wife—" He took her hand.

"Arwen. Send for Arwen."

"Arisae will not come," he said bitterly.

"She will. Tell her….Tell her that Banner-General Briande Duchen Paendrag summons her."

Elrond looked over at her. "Very well," he murmured. He kissed her hand lightly, though she did not seem to notice. "I will. For you, my wife."

It took a very long time for Arisae to answer the summons, so long that Elrond was convinced he was right and she would simply ignore it. _Why should she come?_ he asked himself. _She has made it clear that she considers Briande Duchen no relation of hers…nor I, nor her brothers, for that matter._ He was considering how to tell Briande when he heard the familiar boot-tread, and Arwen's figure darkened the door.

There were two guards outside, members of the Empress's _so'jhin _Deathwatch Guards_,_ her personal retinue of bodyguards, and another man, one of the Seekers for Truth. A quick word from Arisae and they let her pass; she closed the door behind her as she stepped into the room. She did not look at or acknowledge her father in any way, and Elrond realized that what he had done earlier had destroyed any last vestige of their relationship. He barely felt this sting, on top of so many others.

"Banner-General Duchen," Arwen said, looking down at her mother.

Celebrian opened her eyes and looked up at Arwen. "You were right," she said, her eyes shining. "You….you did the right thing, Arisae. I….I just wanted to tell you….you've given me a gift, a more priceless….now I see why, why Eru called it the 'gift of Men.' I am ready. More….more than ready, even _glad_. Ciriel waits for me on the other side. And I…And I understand why you did it."

Arisae's face broke out into a smile. "Thank you, Mother," she said gently. "I thought you might."

"Tell me," Celebrian said now. "Tell me, Arisae, all that you did…all that you said I did. I want to make—I will petition High Lady Riyath," she said, "that I will make a full confession in exchange for the right to kill myself out of shame and restore my honor. But first, I must know all of what you said I did. In life I was an obstacle to you. In death, let me help you."

"I will tell you," Arisae said, and knelt by her mother's bedside and took her hand. As she began to speak, Elrond rose; he left, silently opening the door and ghosting past the Deathwatch guards outside. They were Ogier, both of them; and neither turned so much as a head to see him. He passed them, and stepped out into the grounds around Rivendell Garrison.

The stone path at his feet unrolled before him, and he followed it, only vaguely aware of where he was going; it wound away from the drab wood and stone buildings of the cantonment and into the part of Rivendell remaining that was left unspoiled; Arwen's gardens, the gardens that she had created so long ago. He followed it dimly, not thinking of anything, simply walking among the flowerbeds and the blooming trees, until he reached the fountain at the center. This was the fountain where he had sat and talked with Celebrian only the night before, and he lowered himself to the marble lip of the fountain, looking up at the face of Luthien. The face of Arwen.

He had had it carved for her over a thousand years ago, he remembered, looking up at it. He had had it carved, because he was proud of his beautiful daughter the Evenstar, whom all said was equal to Luthien Tinuviel in radiance; because he was proud of her, and because he loved her and wanted to please her, and the legend of Luthien and Beren had always been her favorite. And she had been pleased, so long ago. She had been pleased, and had clapped her hands and laughed, "Thank you, adar! I will always love this."

It looked nothing like her.

How had he not realized that before? he wondered, looking up at the statue. But he could see it now. Seeing his daughter's features carved in marble, he realized that they were frozen at one point in time, their meaning, their emotion, fixed forever. The smile on the lips of the stone woman was saccharine and insipid; it bore no resemblance to any expression that might be worn by the stern Seanchan soldier who had so ruthlessly run her own mother through earlier that terrible night. No resemblance to the Seanchan to whom he had kneeled in supplication, begging the release of her brother—to the Seanchan who had denied his request. Nor to the woman who now sat at her mother's bedside, helping her mother to find her own death. He had meant the statue in tribute to his daughter, but as he looked at it now, he was almost shocked by the depth of naiveté displayed there. How had he ever thought that was all his daughter was? How had he ever thought it was all she ever would be?

_I will pull it down,_ he told himself. _As soon as I can—I will pull it down._ He did not know what he would do with it afterward, but at least he would have rid himself of this smiling falsehood. For now, he sat there as the darkness of that terrible night thinned and paled with the coming of the dawn, knowing and dreading what the following day would bring.

* * *

The morning dawned pale, gray and misty, with tendrils of fog leaving jeweled droplets on stone and marble, tile and leaf. The Seanchan assembled on the terrace at daybreak, their breath misting in the chill air, come to watch the execution of she who had once been Celebrian. She who had once been Elrond's wife.

Elrond stood in the shadows at the edge of the terrace and watched, as she was led out by the Ogier guards. He did not have to be there—she was no kin of his anymore, not under Seanchan eyes—but he could not have stayed away if his life depended on it. He watched, shadowed and silent, as she who had once been Celebrian knelt before the Daughter of the Nine Moons and made her obeisance. The slender figure of Celebrian, clad only in a ragged shift and with her head shaven, seemed very distant from him; she seemed tiny, small, as if seen through the wrong end of one of those Seanchan looking glasses. Her voice raised, high and piping, in the still and misty air, as she spoke her confession. Elrond could make sense of none of the words Celebrian spoke; it was all done in the slurring Seanchan speech, and his weary mind refused to translate the words into Sindar or Common, but he could tell all he needed to know from the inscrutable faces of the onlookers, the perfect, smooth visage of the Daughter of the Nine Moons and her _so'jhin_ onlooker. From the stony, forbidding expression of she who had once been his daughter, Arisae.

Elrond watched, thinking how serene and calm Celebrian looked, and how utterly distant from him; he watched, as Celebrian fell silent, and the Daughter of the Nine Moons' fingers flickered. One of the _so'jhin_ stepped forward, holding a naked sword crosswise in his hands. Elrond watched as the blade was presented to Celebrian; his hands curled into the stone pillar beside him as Celebrian raised the blade, perfect and silver before her perfect face; watched, helpless even to look away as she placed the tip of that blade against her chest, and as the fatal blow fell he himself sagged against the pillar, stricken, feeling as if the blade had pierced his heart too.

_My wife._ The words graced the misty morning air, and he did not know if it was he who said them. He leaned against the stone pillar, staring at the flagstones in the yard, as the sounds of the _so'jhin_ gathering up Celebrian's lifeless body and carrying it away came to his ears. _My wife…_ He murmured the words over and over again, till they were bereft, as he was.

Elrohir was next; he was brought out, hanging limply from the arms of one of the massive Ogier guards. He did not struggle, did not speak, seemed almost dazed and uncaring of where he was. The Ogier held him motionless, as a tall, thin man that Elrond recognized as one of the Empress's Seekers for Truth read out the charges against him—_charged with treason, for assaulting a member of the Blood of Paendrag with intent to do harm; punishment: the Death of Ten Thousand Tears, commuted by the mercy of the Daughter of the Nine Moons to the Flower Garrote, to be carried out on this day on this year in Rivendell Garrison…_ The onlookers watched, as stonily as for Celebrian. More so, if anything. The _so'jhin_ stepped forward, and Elrond saw what he held taut between his fists: a cord, strung with flowers. _The Flower Garrote._

He did not want to see what came next; as Arisae watched, face frozen, as the huge Ogier Gardener gripped Elrohir's arms, pushed him down, and bent his neck for the rope, Elrond simply turned away. He turned and walked with precise, even steps, away from the terrace and back into the building that was supposedly under his rule. None of the Seanchan gathered on the terrace—none of the guards, none of the High Blood, none of the generals, _morat'raken,_ soldiers or _so'jhin_ paid any attention to him at all; they were all too occupied watching the Seeker for Truth declaim. Ignored, he made his way back into the depths of the Last Homely Home.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, where his sleeping chamber was located; he stopped once, to look out the window. The darkness of the night had given way to a day that was so overcast it was almost as dark. Beneath the clouds flew flights of _raken_; lower, heavy-laden flights of _to'raken_ crossed overhead, bearing people and ore and minerals on their way to the sea. Carts rumbled past, piled high with lumber and stone and metal. The smooth, pleasing shape of the land of Imladris was gone; hills and vales had been leveled in the name of Seanchan efficiency, and in the distance, he could see the drab, blocky gray and brown buildings of the barracks of Rivendell Garrison, the chief administrative unit for the Province of Imladris. As a chill wind rose, his sharp, Elven hearing caught the chants and shouts of Seanchan soldiers being drilled, the calls and responses of sentries, and the distant roars and shouts of animals, drifting from the cantonment center.

He climbed.

His chamber was at the end of the hall on the second floor; he passed the empty rooms of Elladan and Elrohir, of Arwen, and the room that had been Celebrian's chamber, when she had still lived here. When she had still been living. The floor seemed to echo with that cavernous emptiness. He entered his room, and closed the door behind him. Elrohir was certainly dead by now.

He leaned back against the door, closing his eyes, and remained like that for a long while. His mind, his heart, were as empty as the rooms he had just passed. It hurt to move, but at last, he straightened. He opened his eyes.

His sword hung on the wall above his bed, a slender, curved Elvish blade; it was strangely similar to the Seanchan weapons known as "heron-mark" blades in shape. Arwen—Arisae—carried one such blade. It had been that blade, in fact, that had drunk her mother's blood. This blade had hung in its place on his wall for over four thousand years, untouched, undrawn, since the war of the Last Alliance. Since the last battle against Sauron.

He took it down.

And as his hands curved around the light, well-balanced hilt, it seemed he could see it again, the world of Arda as it had been in those days and as it had not been for over a millenium; everything came flooding back, people and places long gone—there was Gil-galad, fair and bright as a sunbeam, yet stern and terrible; there was Isildur, full of fire and spirit, strong and brave and doomed though he did not know it. He saw the field on which Sauron had been brought to battle, the sweeping lines of Elves and Men gleaming in bright armor, standing side-by-side against the darkness; he felt the weight of the armor he wore, felt the heat of the sun on his shoulders, heard the jingling of the Elvish armor behind him, saw the awful dark figure of Sauron himself, and the despoiled forms of the Orcs that made up his forces. It came flooding back and he saw it all, then, standing there with his hands around the hilt of that gleaming crescent blade: he saw Middle-Earth as it had been, in all its wild and noble and proud beauty; the strong herds of the Rohirrim galloping free across the plains of Rohan, Gandalf the Grey, in his broad-brimmed hat and leaning on his gnarled staff and smiling; the stout, sturdy Gimli with his axe over his shoulder; the wonders of the great city of Minas Tirith, the gloomy forest of Mirkwood where mysteries waited in the depths, the twilit beauty of Lothlorien where Galadriel and Celeborn held sway. He saw Isengard and Moria, as they had been before the Shadow fell over them; thought of the Ents, walking abroad on moonlit nights, heard the calling of Eagles to one another on distant mountain peaks, saw the towering stone figures of the Argonnath. He saw Boromir, all full of reckless, daring passion, and there was Aragorn, whom he had raised and watched grow, like unto Isildur but without Isildur's darkness. But most, he saw Celebrian, as he had seen her for the first time, walking toward him under the trees of Lorien, so beautiful he had wondered for a moment if he dreamed; he remembered the moments when the newborn twins had been laid in his arms, one by one, the moment when he had seen Arwen take her first steps, her little slender fingers twined around his as she looked up at him trustingly with his own gray eyes, and those of his brother's. He lost track of the length of time he stood there, remembering a past and a people and a time when all had been glory and wonder and deep mysterious beauty, a time that he had thought would never end.

At last he opened his eyes again. The bright memories gave way to the cold, grim confines of his chamber, dull and dreary and chill in the dim light from the cloudy sky over Rivendell Garrison. That time had passed, and it would not return. He would never look upon its like again.

_Dethrone your pasts;_

_this done, day comes up new,_

_though empty-hearted…. _

_A Seanchan poem,_ he remembered distantly. It was fitting_._

He slid to his knees. The blade was still sharp; he tested it on his wrist and it drew blood easily. It had been said among Men, in the years years ago, that Elves could die by fire, and steel, and grief. It did not seem true that they could die of grief, he thought. Not of grief.

Elrond knelt there, in that dull gray room. Outside, a light rain had started to fall. He stared at the blade, for a long, long time.


	8. Epilogue

Elrond knelt there for how long, he could not say, holding his blade in his hands

Elrond knelt there for how long, he could not say, holding his blade in his hands. The edge was sharp; the light gleamed off it. It was a thing of beauty, as all Elvish blades were. He knew what he was going to do with it; his life of four thousand years had come down to this one moment. It was time. He was ready. He had nothing left. He watched the edge, turning it on its side, the light sparkling in the etched vines and leaves up the side.

It was the door opening behind him that stopped him; he jerked up, half-raising the blade by reflex action, then stopped when he saw who stood in the open doorway. For a moment he turned over in his mind the idea of simply attacking, of charging and cutting down the one who stood there, but ultimately dismissed it. Even if he won, he would lose in that way, for if it was death by slow torture to lay hands on one of the Blood, what would be the penalty for an assault on the Daughter of the Nine Moons?

"What do you want?" he demanded. His jaw clenched.

Her _so'jhin_ was at her side, as always. Amatya stepped forward. "The High Lady Riyath has come to see you, Elrond of the Others; she has graced you with her presence—"

"Graced?" he demanded bitterly. "She has graced?"

"She has graced Rivendell Garrison with her presence," Amatya continued sternly, "and honored you by choosing to be a guest in your house. She will—"

"Amatya, stop."

Riyath had spoken. _Riyath._ Elrond stared at her. He had _never_ heard a woman of High Lady Riyath's rank speak in his presence, but one had spoken now. Amatya, he noticed peripherally, looked no less shocked than he was to hear it. Riyath's voice was clear and light. Her eyes, wide and dark against that dark face, watched him.

"High Lady—"

She turned to her _so'jhin_. "Leave us, Amatya."

"High Lady, it is against all custom and ritual—who will protect you, should I leave your side?" the taller _so'jhin_ asked in tones of outrage. "What if this—this—_barbarian_—should seek your life? Bad enough that you choose to grant this _Other_ the honor of your direct voice, but that you—"

"Amatya, I command you. Leave. Wait outside the door. Now."

Grumbling to herself, the _so'jhin_ nevertheless obeyed; she dropped into a deep bow and retreated—backwards; she would not turn her back on a High Lady of Riyath's rank. The door closed behind her. Riyath did not move; she stayed there, watching Elrond, her eyes dark against her dark face. She had no hair at all on her head; the Highest of the High shaved their heads completely as a sign of their rank.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

She did not answer at first, simply continuing to watch him. She was tiny, very small, not much larger than a hobbit or a dwarf, and slight and delicate, like a doll made from dark porcelain. She looked very young; her baldness made her look even younger, somehow, and more frail. The silence dragged out. He turned away from her, staring down at the blade clenched in his fist.

"You are very brave, to remain here without your _so'jhin_ at a time like this." The words were almost a threat; he knew this, and did not care.

Riyath ignored it. She took a step closer, her dark eyes intent. "You stand _sei'taer_ before me," she said quietly in her slurring voice, "though I have not given you permission to be."

Elrond did not acknowledge this.

"I have read much about you," she continued, "reports dating as far back as Little Tarmon Gai'don, over a thousand years ago, when High Lady Suroth's Expeditionary Force made landfall on this continent. High Lady Suroth later turned out to be a Darkfriend," she added, "though it was not known so at the time. Her name and family were broken and scattered by the Empress at the revelation, made _da'covale_ and _so'jhin_….some are among the Seekers for Truth to this day."

Elrond had not known it, but he supposed it made sense; he and Gandalf had sensed a darkness in her, though it was not the darkness of Sauron or of Morgoth. He did not care. He did not think he would ever care for anything again.

"High Lady Suroth spoke quite dismissively of you, Elrond of the Others," Riyath continued.

"She was arrogant. All Men are arrogant." He remembered Suroth—the strangest looking creature he had ever seen at that time, with her hair shaved in a single crest, and nails of her last two fingers an inch long and lacquered in blue. He had not known enough, then, to recognize the signs of Seanchan nobility. He remembered how she had moved and looked on all she surveyed from behind half-lidded eyes, as if there were no crisis that presented itself to which she would not be equal, no obstacle she could not overcome, nothing that could pose a challenge to whatever goal she had wished to accomplish. She had looked on him that way as well, he recalled; had swept him and his objections aside as easily as the trained Seanchan legions had swept aside the forces of Mordor.

"Suroth was a woman," Riyath commented, a small smile curving her lips.

"It comes to the same."

Riyath moved now, gliding across his chambers; she stopped by the table under the window. She picked up a vase idly, turning it this way and that, handling it with her fingers bent delicately back to accommodate her inch-long, curving nails. Elrond watched her. The vase she handled was ancient; it had been part of Celebrian's dowry, brought with her from Lothlorien at the behest of her parents. It was old and priceless. Riyath turned it over, then set it down as if it were no more than a cheap trinket, worthy of a casual glance at best. He looked away as she settled herself easily in the chair under the window.

"Suroth did not think much of you, Elrond of the Others—"

"I did not think much of her," he countered.

"She said you were, how did it go, 'ignorant, superstitious, disrespectful, and did not demonstrate a proper awareness of his place or of the respect due an emissary of the Crystal Throne—in all things, a typical barbarian,'" she quoted, smiling.

Elrond did not bother to acknowledge this either; he stared down at the blade, running his eyes over the twining patterns of vines and leaves.

"The judgement of other High Lords and Ladies who have been quartered at Rivendell Garrison over the centuries is quite similar," Riyath continued. He tilted the blade, watching the light sparkle, letting her words flow over him without listening to what she was saying. "While it is generally agreed that you are hospitable to those who seek to shelter, it is also generally agreed that you do not understand or fully accept your place in regards to us, nor your duties to the Empress of the Nine Moons—may she live forever," Riyath added coolly.

_May she live forever._ Elrond wished it too, in that instant; wished that the damned Empress and all her damned Seanchan, and not least this damned daughter of hers, might live forever as he had; might live forever, and suffer, as he had.

"You have never rendered the full obeisance to any of the Seanchan High Blood who have sheltered at Rivendell Garrison, even though four times you have hosted those of the High Blood as highly placed as I myself. You are the only Other not to do so: Galadriel of Fort Lorien rendered the full obeisance to Daughter of the Nine Moons Jao-li, three hundred and fourteen years ago, and again two hundred years ago to High Lady Xiaoyu, the sister of Empress Tiy. It is also written, however, that the full obeisance has never been demanded of you."

She paused. He was silent.

"Be _sei'taer_, Elrond of the Others," she said, and he heard the edge of warning in her voice. "You have chosen to be _sei'taer,_ though I had not given you permission; now _be sei'taer_. Look at me."

He raised his eyes to meet her own unwillingly.

"Would you render the full obeisance to me, Elrond of the Others?" she asked softly. "Would you perform the full submission? Go down on your face and kiss the ground before she who is the daughter of the living embodiment of the Light?"

He gave a jarring, strangled sound that might have been a laugh, thinking that this Seanchan did not, in the end, know everything; he _had_ rendered the obeisance, this very evening, to a blooded Seanchan noble. To his daughter. And it had been in vain. "Would it save my son?" he spat at her, the words so twisted and ugly that he barely recognized his voice.

Riyath regarded him. "No."

"Then no."

"Though I were to command you?"

"Command, if you wish; I will not obey, and then you must do as you must. I expect it will mean my death. That is well, except that it will come too late for my liking." He looked pointedly down at his sword, and then back at her, wondering in the back of his mind how undone he must be to speak so to _anyone_—much less a human, and one of the Seanchan no less. "Leave me but a moment, and everything can be arranged to your satisfaction, _Daughter of the Nine Moons_."

"I do not wish your death, Elrond of the Others," she said.

"Do you not?" he asked distantly.

"No." She rose again, gliding to the window, standing with her hands in her sleeves, looking out across the grounds of what had once been Imladris. Again the idea of simply charging her—of raising his blade, crossing the room, and skewering her with it—came to him; he could have done it in a heartbeat, too fast, he knew, for her to react. It took a long moment for him to lower his sword. Then she turned her head, just enough so that he could see one dark eye, and he suddenly realized that she knew what he had been thinking. She smiled slightly.

"I think perhaps you do not understand the Seanchan, Elrond of the Others," she said now, turning and resuming her seat.

"I understand far more of you than I have ever wished," he said with feeling.

"You do not. You think you do, but you do not." Her long, lacquered nails clicked against each other as she placed the tips of her fingers together. Those eyes were swallowing him up.

"I have been fascinated with you Others since I was first aware of you," she said, and smiled gently. "My mother had an Other among the Deathwatch Guards, bearing the tattoo of the raven on either shoulder to mark him as property of the Crystal Throne. He had been renamed, and was known as Gaidash'man Aleet Paendrag—very unusual for one of the _so'jhin_ to hold lands, but _so'jhin_ means 'a height among lowness,' or alternately 'both sky _and_ valley,' and it has been done before. We were close; when I was only three, I asked what his name had been before—ignorant at the time of the insult—and he told me, it had been Glorfindel. Later I saw from his file that he had lived in your house, though he spoke not of it."

"So that is what became of him," Elrond murmured, and looked away.

"Gaidash'man means 'guardian in battle' in the Old Tongue, and it is appropriate; for Gaidash'man has saved my life more times than I can count," she said quietly. "The first attempt on my life came when I was one day old; it was Gaidash'man who stopped my nurse from smothering me in my cradle, at the instigation of my mother's sister. When I was five, another in a long line of attempts on my life almost cost him his; he took three arrows shielding me with his body. Others and humans are different in physiology, and for a time the healers despaired of being able to save him. For that, so he has told me, I gave him what was at that time my most precious possession: the doll I carried with me wherever I went. Years later, on my thirteenth truename day, he told me that he still remembered the words I spoke to him then." She smiled, then quoted, "_'You have saved my life, so it is only right that you take Aurelinda to look after you in return. She can't really protect you of course; she's only a doll. But take her to remind you that should you ever need help, you have only to speak my name and I will hear it. If I'm still alive, of course.'_" Riyath's dark face grew sober for a moment. "It was that, he said, more than anything, that bound him to me."

Elrond tried to picture the Glorfindel he had known, growing so attached to one of the Seanchan. He could not do it.

"That is the way of it, in Seanchan," she continued, tapping her nails together. "Blood counts for little in the way of affection, among the ranks of the Highest; it is often said that 'no knife is sharper than a kinsman's hate, and no knife so often sharpened.' Do you love your daughter, Elrond of the Others?"

"Do you threaten her now too?"

"Not at all," she said, raising a brow. "For she is not your daughter anymore. Threatening her will do no good to me, or would not, were you Seanchan. Do you care for her?"

"Do I—" He stared at her. He did not know what she wanted, finding the entire line of questioning very strange. "She is my _daughter_, for all that you Seanchan do not recognize the bond. I raised her from a child, I held her in my arms, I—" He stopped, feeling grief rise in his throat, and raised his free hand to cover his eyes briefly. He observed that his hand was shaking. "Why do you ask this?" _What gives you the right?_

"You…raised her from a child." Riyath's voice sounded strangely wistful. "My mother did not dare to. She has never even held me, not even once; that would be to show me affection and to put my life even more at risk than it has been, once it was known that I was valuable to her. I have seen her twice in all my life, on my first truename day, and again on my—you Others keep your birth names, correct? On my eighteenth birthday, when I came into my majority. I will most likely not see her again while she lives."

Elrond was silent.

"In Seanchan, among the ranks of the High Blood, all is power. There is no room for affection among equals—how can there be? Among the High Blood, there _are_ no equals—there are inferiors and superiors, and those who are inferior may scheme or plot to gain a higher place, but there are no _equals._ And those closest to you in status are often the most dangerous, because they are those with whom you are in competition for rank. No man or woman of rank or status is trustworthy, only those who are their owners' property. Since the _da'covale_ and _so'jhin_ cannot gain status, except at the favor of their owners, they have nothing to gain and everything to lose by betrayal, and therefore they, and they alone, are safe to trust. My _so'jhin,_ Amatya, raised me from birth. She is more of a mother to me than my own mother ever was, or dared to be, even volunteering to stay with me as _so'jhin_ when I reached my majority, instead of accepting the traditional manumission and reward. I….yes, I—I love her….very much. I trust her with my life. As I do all my _so'jhin._"

He said nothing, looking back down at his blade, waiting for Riyath to fall silent. To leave him to himself, so that he might continue what he had set out to do.

Riyath paused, looking at him again. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was calm and composed, watching him. Looking past her to the window behind her, he could see that the rain had stopped outside, and the dark overcast was clearing slightly; the sky was covered with a single sheet of light-gray clouds through which the sun's light shone, though dimly. What Riyath said next jolted him.

"Your son Elrohir is not dead, Elrond of the Others."

"_What?"_ He jerked upright, the sword forgotten, as he turned to look at her.

"Your son is not dead."

"You lie," he said. His voice shook. "You are _lying_ to me—You _dare_—to—to _lie_ about this—"

"One of the High Blood _never_ lies, Elrond of the Others," Riyath said forbiddingly. "The truth she tells may not be the truth you think you hear, but she will _never_ lie."

"He was under sentence of execution—he faced the Death of—the Death of—" Elrond couldn't go on. His eyes clung to her face, searching desperately for any sign. "You—" He gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "I refuse to believe that you Seanchan would rescind the penalty for attacking one of the Blood. How then can you tell me that he is not dead?"

"Nevertheless." A small smile played around her lips.

He raised his hand to his head. "The sentence has not been carried out yet. That must be it. Is that why you are here, then? Did you come here to command me to beg for his life?" he asked, laughing again, hearing a wild edge in his voice that he did not at all like. "Ask. Ask as you will, and if it is within my power I will do it. I will do anything you command—_anything_—as long as you promise to let him go."

"You need do nothing," Riyath said, smiling. "His life is no longer in danger."

_What?_ He stared at her suspiciously. "Why?" he asked after a moment. "I thought the—the execution—would be carried out at dawn."

"It was scheduled to be," Riyath responded. "However, when he was brought out—after the suicide of the former Banner-General Briande—there was an unexpected development. When the Deathwatch Guards went to strip him for the penalty, it was seen that he bore tattooed on his shoulders the twin ravens, the sign marking him as one of the Empress's _so'jhin._" She observed his frozen expression. "I see that this is a surprise to you. As indeed it was to us. The tattoos appeared to be very recent; most likely, he had received them during the night."

_During the night. During the night…_ "So….what, then?" Elrond asked, swallowing. "What does this mean?"

"If one bears the ravens of the Empress's _so'jhin,_" Riyath said quietly, "then one _is_ _so'jhin._ That is how the law works in Seanchan. A _da'covale_ would not dare to mark him or herself in this way, and it is a catastrophic loss of _sei'taer_ for a freeborn man or woman to do so, but the law is clear. The ravens are the Empress's, and so is he or she who bears them; so it has always been. A story is told," she continued, "of a young lord and lady of the Blood who one night over two thousand years ago, in a drunken folly, had themselves so marked. They were flogged within an inch of their lives for their presumption. Amatya is their descendant. The mark of the Empress is forever.

"As one of the _so'jhin,_" Riyath continued, "Elrohir is technically the property of the Empress (may she live forever), and may not be executed except at _her_ command. His assault on Banner-General Arisae Moribet Paendrag, while still a crime, is also no longer treason—Arisae is a member of the High Blood, but Elrohir is the property of the Empress. Only betrayal of the Empress is treason for one of her _so'jhin._ Therefore, even could we consign him to the death, his offense no longer merits it."

"What—what will you do to him?" Elrond had not heard his voice so faint in many years.

"He was flogged," Riyath said softly, "for his assault on High Lady Arisae earlier, and for his presumption in daring to mark himself in this fashion. The beating was severe, as it must be, given the weight of the offense; he is sorely hurt, but he will recover. I have commanded my own personal physicians to see to him. When he recovers, I will have him added to my retinue; he will join my _so'jhin,_ and possibly even my Deathwatch Guards, should he show aptitude for it, should he want it. In time, if he performs his duties well, he will be respected, honored and even revered; _so'jhin_ means a _height_ among lowness; and he may even come to be granted lands and a new name, as was done with Gaidash'man Aleet Paendrag. Your son will live, Elrond of the Others. Your son will live."

_Your son will live._ Elrond bowed his head, struggling to master himself. He could feel tears stinging his eyes; _not here, not now, not in front of this Seanchan--_ He fought to hold them back, but could not; the best he could do was to turn aside, so that she could not see him weep. And even as he wept, he could only think of how much he had lost, and how very bitter this sliver of good fortune was: for Riyath had said that she would add Elrohir to her retinue, which meant that she would take him away with her. To Seanchan.

"You will take him away with you—" His voice was thick and uneven; he barely recognized it as his own. He scrubbed fiercely at his eyes with the back of one hand.

"He is _so'jhin_ now_._ He cannot remain here," Riyath said coolly from behind him.

"Then I have still lost him."

The Seanchan sighed. "Don't think of it like that," she urged gently.

"Why not? It is the truth. I have lost them all."

"Your sons still live, and your daughter—"

"She is not my daughter. You said that yourself. I have lost her."

"And you said she is," Riyath chided in gentle exasperation. "Which of us is right?"

"I have lost her." He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve, hating it, hating the knowledge that this Seanchan was seeing him so. "She will not know me. I have lost her. I have lost everything."

A rustling of fabric came to his ears, and he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder; he shrugged it off roughly. Unperturbed, Riyath continued, "She _does_ know you, Elrond of the Others."

"She does not."

"She does. Think. Whoever marked Elrohir was someone who knew the old tales about the Seanchan empire, who understood how _so'jhin_ and the Crystal Throne related to each other, and who cared enough for the life of this Other to attempt to save it. Who do you think that might be?"

"Arw—Arisae?"

"She admitted it," Riyath said. "To me. Arisae said that she hadn't thought it would work, but it was the only thing she could think of that might possibly be able to save his life. I will have to punish her for it—a fine, a penance, and a temporary loss of _sei'taer_—for under the law, only the Empress (may she live forever) and her agents have the right to choose new _so'jhin_; but she said that she was willing to accept whatever punishment was necessary. She said," Riyath continued, "that she was willing to accept the punishment, because she could not bear to inflict any more pain upon her father. Upon you."

Elrond was silent, pondering that. He didn't know what to think.

Riyath stepped closer. "Come with me, Elrond of the Others," she said quietly.

"Come with you where?" His voice was still unsteady.

"To see your son and daughter, for a start. I have said before, I had to have Elrohir flogged, for he had broken the law; and though my personal physicians are attending him, I have heard you have had some craft in healing. Perhaps you might want to see if you can do anything further for him. You might wish to see Arisae too—and I think she would like to see you—so that you can hear from her what she did, and why she did and how. And after that—" She paused, looking at him.

"After that?"

"After that," she said, "return to Seanchan with me."

He choked back a laugh. "As your _so'jhin?_"

"No. As my guest. As a member of my retinue, my _soe'feia_ Truthspeaker, perhaps—to tell me the truth when others around me dare not speak. My last Truthspeaker, Naretya, succumbed to a fever some time ago, and I have not yet filled the position." At his look, she raised one brow. "You said yourself you have nothing left here. In truth, I can see that myself; the Captain-General of Rivendell Garrison tells me that you keep to yourself in this house and rarely stir outside it, unless your presence or attention is commanded. Your family is gone. Now that this life is finished, Elrond of Rivendell Garrison, perhaps it is time to try and make a new life for yourself. Your son Elladan occupied the position of Truthspeaker for over a century to the Empress of the Nine Moons (may she live forever). You may do the same. Come with me, Elrond. Come with me."

Her eyes bored into him, intent. _Come with me…._ Elrond heard the words clanging meaninglessly in his mind. _Come with me…._ Slowly, hesitantly, half-seen images began to take shape in his mind: the _Choedan Kal,_ of which he had heard so much; Imfaral, the Sen T'jore, the grasslands of the Serengeda Dai. The _Choedan Kal_….the White Tower….the Stone of Tear…. He had been hearing about these things, about the wonders of Seanchan, for half his life, or so it seemed, and had never thought to see them for himself. Never cared to see them for himself.

_This life is finished, Elrond of Rivendell Garrison. It is time to try and make a new life for yourself._

As those words echoed in his mind, he began to feel the darkness surrounding him begin to lighten. It was no more than a fraction, no more than the tiniest bit….but perhaps, just perhaps….

He raised his eyes to Riyath, making no mind of the fact that he was standing _sei'taer_ before her. She tilted her head, regarding him, seeing perhaps what he was and was not ready to give. Her lips curved the slightest bit.

"Shall we go to see your son, Elrond of the Others?" she offered gently, extending her hand. He was mildly surprised to see his own hand reach out to clasp it. Her fingers were as cool as a new dawn.

"I…I will go with you," he managed to say, and watched the curve of her lips deepen. The Daughter of the Nine Moons inclined her head, drawing him to his feet before taking his arm. As Arwen had, he thought, so many thousands of years ago.

"Then we will go together," she murmured, swinging the door open, and together they stepped into the light of the new day.

_Finis._


End file.
